Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  Throwing down the brush he had been using on his master’s wedding coat, Morris stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Braedon sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. It had to be done. Anyone who could not accept Emma was not worthy of being in the Fitzclarence household, that was all.

  But those words, shot out by a disgruntled servant who did not believe he could be heard…they were the thoughts of so many in society. They did not know her.

  A knock on the door was firm, and Braedon sighed, pulling out his pocket watch. If Morris had returned to apologize, he was not entirely sure how he would deal with it.

  “Come in. Right, Morris, you must understand…”

  Braedon’s voice trailed away as not Morris, but Philip Egerton, the Earl of Marnmouth, stepped into his dressing room.

  His pocket watch was dropped to the floor as his mouth fell open.

  “Marnmouth!” Braedon said in a strangled voice.

  Damn and blast it, what now! He should have known it was all too good to be true––he had asked Marnmouth permission to go after her, and after Marnmouth’s marriage, he thought he would be safe to do so!

  “B-But you are not…I thought you were on your honeymoon!”

  Marnmouth grinned lazily, leaning against the wall. “We have not even managed to leave yet. The wife wants to pack half the house.”

  The smile gave Braedon a little hope. This was not a reprimand, by the look of it, and if Marnmouth wished to object to the marriage itself, he would have waited until the church.

  Still, it was hardly a pleasant situation. For years, Emma had been the man’s mistress. It was how they had been introduced, Braedon and Emma. Marnmouth had overshadowed so many of their earliest encounters, and here he was, potentially about to ruin a perfect day.

  Braedon swallowed. He was looking at the only other man that Emma ever loved. It was a bizarre sensation, and not one that he particularly liked.

  Marnmouth winked. “Never fear, I am not here to steal her away.”

  Braedon let out the breath he had been holding.

  “I just wanted to say how proud I am that you finally got her,” continued Marnmouth. “I know how special she is, and though I never fell in love with her, I did…appreciate her.”

  It was the least uncomfortable way to express it, at least, thought Braedon.

  “Thank…thank you,” he said quietly. “For telling me. It does my soul good to know there are no ill feelings between us.”

  “None at all,” said Marnmouth cheerfully.

  Braedon nodded, a nervous smile appearing on his face. “I am just relieved I asked your permission.”

  It had been the wrong thing to say. Marnmouth stood upright, moving away from the wall, a frown on his face. “You did?”

  Braedon’s heart dropped into his stomach. He had––hadn’t he?

  “Yes, the Larnwick ball,” he said hastily. “You do not recall? I think I said…well, words to the effect that I had a liking for Emma, and I wished to establish an understanding with her. I was merely thinking of taking her as my mistress at the time but since then…”

  Marnmouth laughed. “Dear God, man, the Larnwick ball? I was barely aware of what was happening at that thing, I was too busy trying to court Sophia!”

  Braedon stared, trying to comprehend it all––and then he laughed.

  “Dear God!” he chuckled. “You did not even––well, what a relief I did not attempt to have a rational conversation with you! Christ, I only chased after her because I thought I had your blessing, and you’re telling me the whole time you had no idea what I said?”

  Marnmouth shook his head. “You know, a few months ago, I simply would not have believed you. Now? Now I think almost anything can happen.”

  Braedon picked up his pocket watch from the floor, trying to calm his breathing. It was bizarre now he looked back, but all was well that ended well, wasn’t it?

  “Thinking of pocket watches,” said Marnmouth slowly, “shouldn’t you be at the church?”

  Opening up the golden timepiece in his hands, Braedon saw with horror it was almost eleven o’clock.

  “Yes, I should!”

  “Here, let me,” said Marnmouth swiftly. Stepping forward, he helped the groom into his coat and nodded. “Perfect. Now go get her.”

  Thankfully the church was only a few minutes away, and when he reached the front of the church, Braedon saw, to his surprise, it was packed. Every seat was taken, though a few of the faces were not known to him.

  He shook his head wryly as he took his place. They were all here to see the spectacle. Well, let them stare. Maybe it would give them the chance to see what real happiness looked like for a change.

  “Ready?” said the vicar cheerfully.

  Braedon nodded, taking a deep breath––but before he could say anything, the door to the church opened, and the congregation rose. Gasps echoed around the church, and a quiet murmur began as the organ played to welcome his bride up the aisle.

  Braedon turned around. There she was. Emma––and she was wearing white.

  He grinned. No wonder everyone was so scandalized. After her history, so public and so well-known, a former mistress wearing white? She would be in all the papers by the morning.

  It was perfect. She was beautiful, and she was exactly what he had always wanted. Emma Tilbury. No more, no less.

  Emma held out her hands for his and smiled nervously as Braedon took them.

  “No last-minute changes of mind?” Her voice was low, partly muffled under the last organ notes, but Braedon shook his head.

  “No. No changes of mind. You are the one I choose, you and you alone.”

  Braedon could not have told anyone afterward what their vows were. His entire attention was on Emma. She was radiant, her joy beautifying her more than any gown or amount of jewelry ever could.

  Before he knew it, they had arrived at their wedding reception––expertly catered by the splendid Mrs. Sibley, who deserved some sort of raise if she continued on like this. That, or start paying his tailor to let out his waistcoats.

  “Hello, husband,” Emma said quietly. Her hand was in his as they stood greeting their guests.

  Braedon squeezed her hand. “Hello, wife.”

  She blushed. “Have we welcomed all the guests?”

  Braedon was about to say yes, but then caught sight of two who had hung back. He did not blame them, but if they were going to go into society together, they had to meet for the first time.

  “Not quite,” he said gently. “My lord, my lady.”

  Marnmouth and his recent bride stepped forward, and Braedon felt Emma stiffen beside him. This was it. The strangest part of their wedding, if they were lucky.

  “My dear Braedon, I cannot say how happy I am that you have found each other,” said Marnmouth in a loud, carrying voice. Winking at Emma, he continued in a low voice, “There, that should set enough tongues a wagging.”

  Braedon saw with relief Emma seemed relaxed. In fact, she was rolling her eyes. “You always were so dramatic, Marnmouth.”

  The earl stepped forward and shook Braedon’s hand. “Good luck with her.”

  Emma squeezed his hand again. “We may be a bit unconventional, that is true, but we are not the future Larnwicks.”

  She nodded toward a conversation happening just a few feet from them.

  “Well,” Miss Isabella Lymington was saying with a sneer, “I have to say that is a crying shame.”

  Her twin sister, Olivia, Braedon thought she was, nudged her sister and frowned.

  “Not here,” she was heard to whisper, but her sister frowned back.

  “What? I may speak as I find, I am sure, and the viscount will think none the less of me for saying that it was a crying shame he gave his bride all the pomp and ceremony she did not deserve,” said Miss Isabella Lymington with absolutely no care in the world.

  There was a moment of silence as Emma smiled benignly at the two sisters, and Braedon
saw a mischievous smile creep over her face.

  “Yes, it was just outrageous,” she said seriously as she stepped over to the elder twin—the one, Braedon was sure, who was engaged to Larnwick. “To think, he could have gone so much further, and yet he was restrained! No diamonds pouring down from above nor doves flying free as we committed ourselves to each other! ’Tis a wonder that I married him at all!”

  There were titters of laugher from their other wedding guests, and Braedon grinned with relief. Trust Emma to take control of any situation, though it was a little upsetting to see Miss Lymington expose herself so badly.

  Poor Larnwick. He would be around here somewhere, probably crying with embarrassment at the nonsense his future bride was spouting.

  “Precisely what I was thinking,” said Miss Isabella Lymington triumphantly, evidently not understanding the joke. “And I am so sorry to hear it, your ladyship. At my wedding, there is going to be––”

  “No one wishes to hear any more about your wedding plans, Isabella!” It was the other twin who had spoken, and there were two pink spots on her cheeks.

  Miss Isabella Lymington took a deep breath. “Well, I do not see why not! I will be a duchess, you know, and a duchess…”

  “We are here to celebrate those of Miss Tilbury––sorry, my lady.”

  The younger twin at least had the decency to look ashamed of her sister, and Braedon wondered why no one gave the girl a good shake. Surely she could not go about the world like that?

  The sisters started to bicker in low voices until Larnwick strode over and pulled his future bride away.

  “Young love.”

  Braedon turned to see Emma smiling wryly. Marnmouth and his wife had gone, leaving the two of them were alone.

  “We are young!” protested Braedon. “And we are not anything like that!”

  She laughed. “Well, you are certainly younger than I am. So, we are married. Does this mean you can tell me now where we will be going for this honeymoon of ours? A few weeks at Tidgley Manor?”

  There was a look of genuine excitement on her face, but it was nothing, Braedon knew, to the excitement she would experience when she knew the truth.

  “No,” he said.

  The joy disappeared from Emma’s face, but she rallied. “That is of no matter. I am sure wherever you have chosen––”

  “Rome.”

  Emma stared. “Rome––Rome?”

  “Paris,” said Braedon with a grin.

  “Well, which is it, Rome or Paris?”

  Braedon almost laughed. “Berlin.”

  Emma stared, a frown appearing across her delicate brow until she finally understood. “No––no! A Grand Tour! Really?”

  Braedon kissed her. “Yes, of course! You think I wouldn’t give you what you wanted?”

  “You had better be careful,” teased Emma. “I developed some very expensive tastes as a mistress.”

  Braedon smiled. “I know. But now you can have whatever you want as my wife.”

  About Emily E K Murdoch

  If you love falling in love, then you’ve come to the right place.

  I am a historian and writer and have a varied career to date: from examining medieval manuscripts to designing museum exhibitions, to working as a researcher for the BBC to working for the National Trust.

  My books range from England 1050 to Texas 1848, and I can’t wait for you to fall in love with my heroes and heroines!

  Follow me on twitter and instagram @emilyekmurdoch, find me on facebook at facebook.com/theemilyekmurdoch, and read my blog at www.emilyekmurdoch.com.