Never a Bride

by Megan Frampton

  She held her hand out to him. He was still sprawled on the sofa, his limbs seeming to take up the entire room. She would have to have a discussion with him about the appropriate behavior when a lady rose.

  Teaching young children their multiplication tables, even given her own difficulty with maths, was likely far easier than teaching this man some manners.

  “Excellent.” Finally he stood, taking her hand. His hand was enormous, engulfing her own entirely. “It’s a bargain.”

  As he’d first thought, the lady clearly had secrets.

  Lady Della turned to him, her cheeks still delightfully pink. That mouth of hers, however, was pressed into a thin line, indicating just what she thought of him.

  Blackguard, rogue, scoundrel. Nothing he hadn’t heard before. Nothing that wasn’t correct either.

  “I reside at 568 Grace Court. Not the most fashionable part of town.”

  “Not that I’d know that,” he interrupted with a grin. “I’ve just returned to London, remember?”

  She rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed. Which only made him grin harder.

  “Tomorrow. For tea. I will introduce you to Mrs. Wattings.”

  Mrs. Wattings. So Wattings had a wife? Now her interest in finding Wattings made much more sense. He wondered how his new betrothed had met Mrs. Wattings, but he suspected she wouldn’t tell him.

  “Until tomorrow, my lady.” He took her hand, raising it to his lips. Placing his mouth on the back of her hand, wishing she weren’t wearing gloves so he could taste her skin.

  She snatched her hand back and nodded, then turned and marched out the door, the maid scurrying behind.

  Griffith watched as she descended the stairs. There wasn’t a carriage outside, so she’d come in a hansom. Was she too poor to afford a carriage? Or her situation didn’t require one?

  He realized he was desperate to know more about this woman, a lady who did not appear to be at all daunted, either by his appearance or his lack of conventional manners. Just the sort of woman he had always longed for, but despaired of ever finding.

  She leaned across toward Sarah, taking her hand. “I would do anything to give you that peace of mind.” She cleared her throat. “And he did say he wouldn’t ask me to do anything I didn’t wish to. It was part of our deal.”

  Sarah squeezed her hand in reply, still looking worried. “I wish you didn’t have to is all. I know how cruel people can be, and I don’t want you to have to suffer for me.”

  “It’s not suffering,” Della replied, waving her hand airily. “I get to buy some new gowns, attend a few parties with my fake betrothed as I fend off eager young ladies, and watch my parents wrestle with whether or not to acknowledge me. It will be delightful.”

  Besides which, how long would he tolerate being in her company when so many people were directly rude to her? She had warned him, it wasn’t as though he could claim ignorance. And then she could remain at home while he continued to help her. Because she knew that under everything, he was a gentleman, and he would keep his word. And if he wasn’t a gentleman, she would remind him that she was already ruined, so she wouldn’t hesitate to spread rumors about him and his behavior if he stepped out of line.

  In any scenario, she would get what she wanted.

  Her friend shook her head, but Della could see that Sarah wasn’t going to argue the point anymore. Perhaps because she knew it was pointless?

  “Fine. But you have to promise me that if you become uncomfortable at any time that you won’t continue.”

  That wouldn’t happen. Or perhaps it would, but Della would never admit to any kind of discomfort, not while Henry’s fate was unknown.

  Sarah bit her lip, her eyes moist. “Thank you for doing this. I want to know. Whatever it is, I want to find out.”

  Della nodded. She and Sarah were both aware it was more than likely that Henry was dead, but they also both knew that Sarah would be agonizing over it until it was a certainty.

  “And now that that is settled, how about we go visit the dressmaker so I can purchase some new gowns? I need to look appropriately outrageous as the scandalous Lady Della, the presumed betrothed to the Viscount—what’s his name again?”

  “Griffith Davies, Viscount Stanbury,” Sarah replied with a soft smile. “You’re going to have to know his name if you’re going to be betrothed to him.”

  “Fine,” Della said with an exaggerated sigh. “Stanbury, Stanbury, Stanbury.” Della rose, holding her hand out for her friend to take. “Let’s go.”

  Sarah stood, allowing Della to lead her to the front of the house where they gathered their cloaks.

  “Becky!” Della called. They heard footsteps, and then the maid appeared. For once, her chin was not quavering. Perhaps she was finally settling in.

  “Mrs. Wattings and I are going out for a bit. Can you mind the girls? They’re upstairs playing.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Becky replied, curtseying.

  “And we’re off on our adventure,” Della said as the two women walked outside.

  “Heaven help us,” Sarah murmured, at which Della just laughed.

  Chapter 4

  Griffith arrived at Lady Della’s house at what he presumed was teatime. At least according to his faulty memory.

  Speaking of which—he should really find out what happened to Clark, and let his crew know he wouldn’t be captaining them anymore. Not to mention figure out what procedure he’d need to follow to quit the Royal Navy.

  Damn it, that hurt. He shoved the emotion away to deal with later.

  Better to keep his mind occupied with thoughts of his new voyage than to obsess over trips he would never take now.

  He knocked, and the door opened moments later. It was she, and not a servant. Again he wondered what was so different about her—why didn’t she have a butler to answer the door? Unless she was so desperate to see him again she insisted on waiting for him herself?

  The thought pleased him more than he knew it should. Especially since he knew it wasn’t true.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Lady Della said, holding the door wider so he could enter. He stepped into the foyer, noting several cloaks hanging on the opposite wall, some of them clearly child-sized. A ball lay on the floor underneath.

  “You live here with children?” he asked.

  She glanced to where he was looking. “Yes, of course. My own child, and Sarah’s. Mrs. Wattings’s.”

  She had a child?

  “So you are a widow?” he asked. He knew nothing about her; he’d resorted to looking in Debrett’s for her name, but the only thing he discovered was her age and who her parents were. There was no mention of a husband.

  “I am not married,” she replied, an expression on her face that practically dared him to comment.

  “Ah.” He wouldn’t ask when she hadn’t volunteered more information, no matter how curious he was.

  And he was intensely curious. Although that fact would go a long way toward explaining why she was unaccepted in Society.

  “Well. If you would like to step into the parlor?” She gestured to a door at the far end of the small foyer. She began to walk ahead of him. Eyes up, Griffith reminded himself. Even though his eyes were not obeying orders, instead looking at the curve of her waist and the sway of her hips.

  He really should do something about his needs or he’d be subjecting his pretend betrothed to far too many salacious glances.

  Although that thought, now that he’d met her, was not nearly as appealing as before. Any woman would pale in comparison to her.

  She turned quickly, giving him just enough time to yank his eyes up to her face. Thank goodness for quick reflexes.

  “Do you care for tea?” she asked.

  “I doubt you have anything stronger, so tea is fine,” he replied. She nodded as though that was the answer she’d expected and rang a bell.

  “My lady?” It was yet another impossibly young girl, one who looked at him and turned white as a sheet. If I could do somethi
ng about my size I would, Griff thought to himself. It’s not enjoyable to terrify any lady who comes near me.

  Except for her. She wasn’t terrified at all. A remarkable woman, to be sure. Even without her hat pin.

  “We would like tea, please. And if you could ask Mrs. Wattings to step into the parlor? Thank you.”

  The girl nodded and curtseyed, then shut the door behind her.

  Griff looked at the closed door, his eyebrow rising. “Is it your custom that every gentleman who visits you has the benefit of being in a closed room alone with you?” He shook his head. “No wonder you are not accepted in polite society.”

  She glared at him even as her cheeks turned bright red.

  “I did warn you about my reputation. It is you who thought that made our farce even more appealing.”

  Griff gestured for her to sit, then lowered himself down onto the sofa. She sat beside him at the far end, still glaring.

  “So I did. I should ask, however. Am I likely to encounter any unexpected rivals in my claim to your person?”

  Her eyes glittered. She was truly glorious, especially when her angry passion was so clearly raised.

  “No, my lord. I live here with my friend Mrs. Wattings and our children. Every day Sarah and I go to the Society for Poor and Unfortunate Children to offer instruction. Sometimes, when we are feeling especially adventurous, we get ices and walk home. That is the sum of my existence. There are no rivals.”

  “Sounds fairly dull to me,” Griffith said. “Are you certain you don’t want to engage in any more scandalous behavior?” He winked at her, enjoying how she glared even harder at him.

  “The most scandalous behavior I can imagine, my lord, is entering a ballroom on your arm.”

  Before he could reply, the door opened letting in two meowing kittens, and a striking woman around the same age as Lady Della entered the room.

  The resemblance ended there, however; Mrs. Wattings, as Griffith assumed she was, was brown-skinned, with dark brown eyes and delicate eyebrows. Her hair was pulled back into a modest style, and her clothing was just as modest, and obviously that of a lady’s. Her expression was gentle, and she glanced from his face to her friend’s, her eyes widening as she assessed the situation. And how large he was, he presumed.

  Griffith stood, holding his hand out to her. The kittens dove under the sofa. “You are Mrs. Wattings? I am Griffith Davies, Lord Stanbury. Lady Della tells me you are Wattings’s wife?”

  She nodded as she shook his hand.

  “Please sit,” Griffith said in a mild tone. He waited until she took a chair opposite, then sat back down.

  “So you do have some manners,” he heard Lady Della mutter.

  He ignored her. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Wattings was a good seaman. I am sorry to hear he has been missing. He was on my ship.”

  “The Royal Lady,” Mrs. Wattings said.

  “Yes, the Lady. A fine ship, at least until we ran into a fearsome storm. We were lucky there was another ship nearby.”

  “What happened then?” Lady Della asked impatiently.

  “We boarded the other ship, which took us to the nearest port. From there we managed to find passage for the crew back to London. I stayed in that town until all of my crew had sailed. That is the last I knew of Wattings. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh. But you said—you told Della that you knew he had made it home?”

  Of course. He’d left out the most important part. He was a thoughtless idiot. An opinion it seemed Lady Della shared, judging by her expression. “Yes, once I reached London and obtained another ship, I found records of my crew having landed, including Wattings. I would have liked to have him aboard again. I thought he was planning on heading south, but I could find no word of him. That is the last I know of him.”

  Mrs. Wattings started to tremble, and Lady Della was out of her seat immediately and bending over her friend. “Breathe, Sarah.” She turned to Griffith. “Could you get a glass of water, please?”

  “He’s just as abrupt as you are,” Griff heard Mrs. Wattings say in a shaky voice. He strode out of the room, nearly running into a woman carrying a tray of tea things. “Is there water on there?” he demanded.

  She shook her head no, and he walked past her toward where he assumed the kitchen was.

  “Water!” he called, his pace quickening. He descended the stairs and ended up in a small, clean kitchen. A few startled young girls stared at him as though he were the devil himself. “Water for Mrs. Wattings, please,” he said, trying to keep his tone reasonable so he wouldn’t scare them further.

  One of them jumped up and filled water from a tap, then held the glass out to him.

  Sarah nodded, gesturing for him to sit, which he did. One of the kittens poked its nose out from under the sofa and then began to clamber up the viscount’s leg. He didn’t shake it off, though; instead, he drew the kitten up and cradled it against his chest.

  Della had never envied one of her rescued cats more. Even though she wished she didn’t have such urges. But his presence served to remind her of certain needs that had not been met in some time.

  “Della will pose as your betrothed as you reenter Society,” Sarah answered. She frowned, tilting her head. “But that is what is puzzling me, my lord. Why do you have to do this in the first place?” She spread her hands out in an inclusive gesture. “From what I can see, you have no need of Society. Unless you want to settle down and raise a family? In which case having Della on your arm would be a strong impediment.” That last part was spoken in a dry tone of voice.

  “Just what I am hoping for,” the viscount replied. “My cousin is the Duke of Northam. And he—” He paused as he took a deep breath. He looked pained as he spoke again, and he stroked the kitten’s head for a moment or two before speaking. “My cousin is ill, and it seems I am his heir. He has insisted that I learn the ways of the dukedom before I inherit, which means reentering Society, among other things.”

  “But why?” Della asked, struck by Sarah’s question. “I’m certain there are recluse dukes off somewhere, not having to bother with Society at all. Why do you have to?”

  Lord Stanbury resettled on the sofa, a considering look on his face. “Frederick said that was part of it. That if I am not at least on reasonable terms with my fellow aristocrats that they will block anything I try to do. Not only that, but that they might bring up my unorthodox past. They can’t take away my title, but they can meddle in my finances. Put restrictions on how I live my life. And I don’t want to spend time or money fighting them. The estate is in reasonable condition, but there are needed improvements, and Frederick has been too ill to oversee it all. He needs the support of others to improve things.” He swallowed. “Frederick has always wanted things to improve. It’s just too bad that Frederick couldn’t improve himself. So I have to do whatever Frederick wants. I—I owe him.”

  There was more there, of course. But it wasn’t her place to pry, just for her to be on his arm as he did whatever it was he felt he had to do.

  “I am so sorry about your cousin,” Della said. She went to sit on the sofa beside him, resisting the urge to pat his arm or some other compassionate gesture. He would probably bristle at that kind of reaction. So would she, in that situation. They definitely were more similar than she wanted to admit. “I understand your family loyalty.” She glanced at Sarah. “I have it myself,” she said with a smile, which Sarah returned.

  “Yes, well,” he muttered, clearly uncomfortable with expressions of sympathy. “Also, perhaps not quite as important is that it will irk everyone I meet that I am the heir to the dukedom.” He grinned in apparent pleasure. “So many of them warned my parents I was a troublemaker, and to guide me with a firm hand.”

  “I wonder why anybody would say that,” Della commented.

  “Besides which, it sounds as though you are in need of a reentry to Society yourself, judging by what you say. It will be a pleasure to watch their faces as we walk in. Worth any amoun
t of fancy dancing and such.”

  “Ah, no wonder you are so pleased to have me along. I am an even bigger burr in their side. I’m the most disgraceful of the duke’s daughters.”

  “Precisely,” he said in an enthusiastic tone.

  Sarah just looked from one of them to the other, her expression startled. Nearly aghast. Until she eventually sighed and threw up her hands. Her usual response to much of what Della did.

  “Well,” Della said in a bright tone of voice, “where do we start?”

  Chapter 5

  Where do we start?

  Well, first I would undo your hair. I imagine it would flow down to your arse. Then I would lower my head to your neck, kissing it softly. Waiting for you to wrap your arms around me.

  “Start?” Griffith said after a moment. A moment where his imagination had definitely run away with him. “I will consult with Frederick and review what invitations have come in.”

  She looked him up and down, a gleam in her eye. He liked it when she assessed him like that. He knew she could not possibly find him wanting.

  “Do you have the proper attire?” she asked, her tone indicating she doubted it.

  Well, she was correct in her assumption.

  “No, not at all,” he said, shaking his head. Which reminded him he probably should send to the ship for his belongings. At which point he’d have to tell his crew of his change in circumstances.

  The thought hit him like a punch to the heart—not to be able to head off to sea whenever he wanted, to be bound to the land. To take up responsibilities he’d actively run from so long ago.

  “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, Della, I want to go see what the children are up to. I will leave you to your sartorial discussion,” Mrs. Wattings said as she rose.

  “Sartorial?” Della echoed in an amused tone as her friend walked to the door.

  Griffith got up and bowed, then retook his seat. The kitten he’d picked up clung to his chest, and he knew he’d have tiny marks on his skin as a memento.