Secrets of a Scandalous Bride

by Sophia Nash

  “You have not a surplusage of words tonight, my darling.” Pymm nodded in Elizabeth’s direction. “I will wager that will change soon enough.”

  She’d forgotten the general’s annoying habit of employing words that did not quite fit to pretend an intellect he did not quite possess. She had guessed long ago that he collected rarely used words designed to impress.

  Only Elizabeth spied the Duke of Helston rolling his eyes. She had never seen the great man tolerate a bore in silence. The Prince Regent’s presence was most likely the only thing reining in the duke’s infamous temper.

  The man who would be king rose to his feet with the help of several footmen dressed in purple and silver royal livery. Everyone at table instantly quieted. His Majesty raised his gold goblet and his guests followed suit. “A toast is in order, my friends. While we gather for Ascot, I’ve also requested your presence to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of one of the most decorated men from our great war with France, General Leland Pymm. To Pymm and his lovely fiancée, Elizabeth.”

  “To Pymm and his Elizabeth,” echoed one hundred voices.

  “It is a testament to General Pymm’s generous heart that I hereby grant him the betrothal gift he has requested. And lest anyone make the hasty assumption that he is a greedy man given my recent bequest of prime land in Mayfair, you shall all be relieved on that point,” His Majesty chuckled. “Apparently, he has his bride’s fondest wish at heart.”

  Elizabeth could feel blood rushing to her cheeks as a few murmurs broke out. This was sure to be a disaster. She began to slump in her chair when Luc’s hand stilled her again. She sat up.

  “Miss Ashburton, you are soon to be one of the fashionable leaders of society, my dear. You will want for nothing. But Pymm has told me of your friend, Mrs. Winters, and the relative poverty she finds herself in after her husband’s unfortunate demise on the field of honor. I hereby bestow Barton House, in the northern Lake District, and an annuity of four thousand a year to this worthy war widow in light of her husband Colonel Winters’s great service to England.”

  Elizabeth instantly turned to Sarah. Her best friend’s grave eyes widened in shock before she crushed her napkin to her face.

  The Prince Regent continued despite the avalanche of excited voices and congratulations directed toward Sarah. “Does this suit you, Miss Ashburton? Did Pymm choose your gift wisely?”

  A flood of happy anguish flooded her breast. It was exactly what she would most wish for. From the last person she wished to be given anything.

  “Your Majesty,” she whispered. “I am overwhelmed by your generosity.”

  “You had better thank Pymm rather than me.”

  She swallowed and addressed the general without raising her eyes. “Nothing could make me happier than to see my friend settled in such a comfortable fashion. I am most grateful for the benevolence of your gift, General.”

  “Your happiness means the world to me, Elizabeth,” Pymm said with a smirk.

  Sarah’s voice pierced the stillness. “It’s too much, Your Majesty.” Her eyes were huge in her face, and glistening with tears. “I cannot accept such—”

  The Prince Regent waved away her words. “I’m delighted to demand your acceptance, Mrs. Winters.” And then he waggled an eyebrow. “Besides, the way I understand it, I might very well be killing two birds with one house, so to speak.”

  What on earth?

  “I will wager I shan’t have to make a gift to Wymith when he gathers the courage to wed now, will I?” He roared with laughter.

  Elizabeth glanced up only to find Pymm winking at her.

  Her world was crumbling apart and yet, she must smile. And then her last remaining ally, the Duke of Helston, a man who could be counted on for his cynical outlook on marriage, relaxed the tense expression on his face.

  Oh, she understood it. He was relieved. With her marriage and Sarah’s settlement, the financial burden of the last two women under his grandmother’s protection would soon be removed from his broad shoulders. And now, with this gift, not one of her friends believed Pymm a monster.

  As if he could hear her thoughts, Luc looked down at her face beside him. “Allow me to offer my sincerest best wishes for your future happiness, Elizabeth.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” A return to formality seemed the best way to begin the future she had hoped to avoid.

  She was to be removed from her circle of friends. Indeed, her best friend was to go to the other end of the country. And just as Rowland had said, she would be stored in Pymm’s immense house, impregnated and put to pasture when the general tired of her novelty. If she had any luck, she could make him tire of her quickly.

  Luc sighed again so heavily Elizabeth swiveled her head to look at him. “Your Grace?”

  He spoke so softly she had to duck closer to catch all the words. “I know I’m going to live to regret this.” He shook his head. “The Earl of Wallace is in the royal stables. He passed to me the unreasonable request that you personally bring a drop of tea to a sick man there when we remove from table.”

  She could barely breathe in her tight corset. “Mr. Manning?” she whispered.

  “I haven’t the faintest.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t be a fool, Elizabeth. It would be better if someone else tended to this. You know Pymm won’t like cooling his heels, waiting for you in the ballroom.”

  For the one and only time in her life, Elizabeth prayed she would not have the chance to dance tonight. Except for her toes, which danced a reel under the table. It was perhaps five minutes—an eternity and a day—before the Prince Regent drew back from the table, effectively ending the royal supper and allowing her escape.

  Chapter 10

  Elizabeth dashed across the walkways, the light of the full moon helping her negotiate her footing. Who was ill? She was certain it was Rowland. Her fingers were numb and in her haste she dropped the napkin on the tray she was carrying. Breathless, she stooped to retrieve it from the pea-gravel path.

  The royal mews were awash in lantern light. An army of stable hands, coachmen, hostlers, and young boys ran in every direction, tending to the hordes of horses stabled in splendor there. She found the Earl of Wallace in the rear of the stables, surrounded by a half dozen men Elizabeth recognized from Manning’s.

  “Ah, Elizabeth,” he said, eyeing her with a smile, “you’ve brought the tea?”

  “What is she doing here?” Rowland ground out.

  Oh…he was not ill.

  “Asked her to bring something for Lefroy,” Michael replied, nonplussed. “Is there a problem?”

  Her gaze dropped to the grizzled man lying in a bed of straw, in the middle of the covey of men. “Mr. Lefroy,” she whispered. “What has happened to you?”

  The small man looked far older than she remembered. “Oh, it’s you, lovey. Dids you bring old Lefroy somfing? Don’t know if I can manage anyfing rights now,” he said weakly. He tried to raise his head and groaned.

  “What’s wrong with him?” She looked at the haggard, dark expression on Rowland Manning’s face.

  “Don’t know,” he muttered.

  “He’s been casting up his accounts for the last three hours,” Michael added.

  “Dinner didn’t sit well,” Lefroy groaned.

  She put her hand to Lefroy’s forehead. “No fever. Hmmm. Has anyone gone for an apothecary? Perhaps you would care for some tea, Mr. Lefroy?”

  The man appeared almost green, a fine sheen of sweat on his face. He nodded and she helped him drink a little.

  “There’s no possible way he’ll be able to ride tomorrow, Rowland,” Michael murmured behind her.

  She stared at Mr. Lefroy. “Ride?”

  “The Gold Cup,” Mr. Lefroy whispered.

  “I highly doubt you’ll be able to do anything of the sort, Mr. Lefroy,” she said softly, then turned to Rowland. “Surely someone else can be found.”

  His face hardened.

  She turned to look at the others next to him. A young boy she�
�d seen in the stables sidled up to her. “Vespers don’t loike men, only women. ’Cept for Mr. Lefroy and the master. Temperamental-loike. Tosses other men off.”

  “So you could ride her,” she suggested, finally meeting Rowland’s remote gaze.

  He laughed harshly.

  “What?” she asked.

  Michael helped her to her feet. “He’s too big a brute. The other horses will be carrying much less weight. The mare doesn’t stand a chance of winning with that sort of handicap.”

  She looked around her. “You’re wrong.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Michael said.

  “Mr. Manning might be greater than all of you in stature but he is considerably leaner than most of you, haven’t you noticed?”

  A cacophony of questions ensued, each person weighing their opinion. She cut through it all. “Does anyone have a better idea? Or do you want to cry off?”

  “Rowland’s three stone heavier than any other rider, Elizabeth,” Michael said. “That’s a considerable disadvantage.”

  “Well, I could ride her, since she doesn’t mind ladies,” she offered softly.

  “Absolutely not,” Rowland said, menace rising from every word.

  “She be an excellent rider, sir,” Mr. Lefroy murmured. “I’ve seen her meself.”

  “So you rode my horses without even a by-your-leave?” he muttered, annoyed. “I should have guessed you didn’t have enough to do.”

  “It’s an idea,” Michael said, a smile breaking onto his face. “Sarah once suggested that Elizabeth is a crack rider. I’m not surprised, after riding across most of Portugal and Spain,” Michael insisted, in such a casual tone Elizabeth knew something was off.

  She looked at the sea of expectant faces, save one. “Is there any rule against a female rider?”

  A few hesitant murmurs assured her there was not. Rowland’s arctic blast overshadowed all. “I’d pull Vespers before I’d allow her on the mare’s back.”

  “And why is that?” Michael crossed his arms over his chest. “Elizabeth’s your best shot at the prize.”

  She watched the black thunderclouds roll across Rowland’s face. “I’ll ride Vespers, for Christ sakes,” he bit out.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Michael replied, glancing at his fingernails. “It might be dangerous.”

  Rowland cursed and said something caustic about brothers, death wishes, and bloody females.

  Elizabeth watched the two men; a seed of an idea already rooted in the landscape of her mind. Really, what did she have to lose? He had said she should have a little larceny in her heart for righteousness to win, hadn’t he? She refused to admit that he had obviously expected her to try and steal her family’s letters from Pymm. While the others conferred about the change for the race tomorrow, she stooped to whisper a few sentences to Lefroy privately.

  He glanced at her and then at his master and shook his head.

  “Please?” she whispered.

  “He’d wring me neck for certain, lovey.”

  She stared at him.

  Mr. Lefroy shook his head weakly. “Come back an hour before dawn and we’ll parlay.”

  She straightened only to hear Rowland answering a question from his half brother.

  “Someone tampered with his food,” Rowland murmured, then pointed a finger at Mr. Lefroy. “Your pay is docked. I told you not to eat the night before, old man.”

  “Are you certain?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No.” He dragged a hand through his dark hair.

  Michael rested an arm on the top board of a stall. “I hear Pymm bet a small fortune against Vespers.”

  If she was going to do this, she had best leave so she’d have time to prepare. “Well, I see I’m not really needed here any longer—so I shall bid you all good evening. I should return to the castle.”

  “The best idea I’ve heard yet,” Rowland coolly replied. “And you would be wise not to tell anyone where you’ve been. Your bloody fiancé is probably shouting down the place looking for you.”

  Rowland disbanded the rest of the stable hands, tasking each with a myriad of details prior to the most important race on the calendar. Even his damned brother was put to good use. He thought the better of it when he was forced to endure his chatter.

  “So, what are you going to do about Elizabeth Ashburton?” Michael murmured as he studied Vespers’s hoof resting against the scarred leather apron that stretched between his knees.

  If Rowland could not find Michael’s words amusing, he could at least find humor in his half brother wearing evening finery beneath a blacksmith’s apron. He leaned against the wood wall of the shadowed stall and restrained himself from standing over Michael to examine his work. “Careful, she’s still got that stone bruise on the frog.”

  “It’s healed. Answer my question.”

  “What bloody question?” Rowland scanned the large mare’s form for the hundredth time in the last few hours. He had bred her himself and overseen every stage of her development. She had more heart and intelligence than any other horse in England as far as he was concerned.

  “You know which question. How are you going to help Miss Ashburton?”

  “And why in hell would I want to do that? I’ve got enough to concern me. And that female has more problems than a thief caught in a window sash.”

  His brother glanced at him, a nail between his teeth. He plucked the nail from his mouth, carefully positioned it on the hoof, and tapped it into place. “You know, we can do this the hard way or the easy way.”

  “Far be it from me to deny you your pleasure.” Rowland tried to casually peer closer. “Reposition the nail next to it, too.”

  “No, that one’s good. I only redid the first to humor you. Everything is fine, as a matter of fact. At least she’s in tip-top shape for the race tomorrow.” Michael released the horse’s hoof and checked the pastern. “The same cannot be said of you.”

  Rowland made an exasperated sound.

  “You look like you’re about to topple over, old man.” Michael collected his old blacksmithing tools. “How are you going to pull it off tomorrow?”

  “Check the other fore hoof.”

  “‘…please’?” Michael requested, a slow grin climbing.

  “For someone who has blunt riding on the race too, you’re mighty unconcerned.”

  “I don’t have a ha’penny on the Gold Cup.”

  Rowland raised a brow. “Well, why in hell are you out here helping me then? Thought there was a bloody ball to attend, or do you miss your old life as a smithy?”

  Michael chuckled and ran his hand along the mare’s rump as he crossed to the other side and examined her hoof. “I realize the notion is completely foreign to you, Brother, but there is this thing called fellowship. It’s the fabric of life. You should try it one of these days.”

  Rowland snorted. “I should have guessed happiness would turn you into a sentimental fool.”

  Michael shrugged off the words. “You should try it with Elizabeth Ashburton before it’s too late.”

  “You know, Michael, if your lectures are the price for tearing you away from Prinny’s entertainments, perhaps you should go back now before you ruin this poignant exhibition of brotherly love,” he said, jaded cynicism dripping from his words.

  “The others might not see what’s going on here, but you and I do,” Michael said, determined not to be put off. “She shouldn’t marry Pymm.”

  “Really?” Rowland ground out.

  His brother released the mare’s hoof and stood slowly. “This might very well be your last chance.”

  “At what?” Rowland gritted out. Christ, he didn’t have time for this.

  “To reclaim your dignity and rejoin humanity,” Michael murmured.

  “You are a step away from wearing skirts, Michael. Must be from living among females and their overwrought emotions.”

  “And you are a step away from complete ruin on every front.” Michael waved his arm. “Lefroy told me the sorry state
of your financial affairs. And I don’t need anyone to tell me about the state of your soul. I endured it firsthand, like everyone else under your employ.”

  “Hang Lefroy,” Rowland seethed. “And why do you give a bloody fig about what happens?”

  “I didn’t until I put all the pieces together.”

  “Well, you can leave it well enough alone. If I can’t force my gossiping stable master from his cozy sickbed then I shall ride Vespers to victory and your conscience will be relieved. And if I fail, I shall find an alternate plan.”

  “Really?” Michael raised a doubting brow. “And what of next month’s creditors?”

  “I shall find a way. I always do. That’s the difference between you and me, Michael. You depended on your wife to save your neck. I’ve never depended on anyone else in my life.”

  Michael’s eyes bore into his. “It’s because you have never trusted another living soul—except your mother and your brother Howard.”

  And Mary…Rowland’s hands fisted.

  “And then you learned your brother wasn’t worthy of your trust, and so now you stand alone—when you don’t have to.”

  “Trust is for weak fools. Look, if you have something more to say, say it. I don’t have time to stand here whining about the past.”

  Michael folded his arms over his chest. “All right, Brother. For a long time I thought you the most vicious, hard-hearted bastard that plagued the earth.”

  Rowland smiled.

  “But then I saw you with Elizabeth at your enterprise and then again at the duke’s wedding, when you saved her from exposure. And just now you refused her offer to ride Vespers even when she’s your best hope to win. Now, I’m forced to admit you might not be the man I thought you were.”

  Michael’s unwavering gaze was like some sort of inhuman probe. Rowland would not look away first. They stared at each other, only the sound of the mare’s low whicker breaking the silence.