Kitabı oku: «The Bride Trilogy»

I hope you enjoy Royal’s Bride. It’s the first in my new Brides trilogy, a series that revolves around the handsome Dewar brothers and the women they come to love.

Reese’s Bride is next. Retired from the cavalry, Reese Dewar has returned to Briarwood, the home he inherited from his grandfather. There he intends to make a life for himself that does not include battle. Instead, Reese will be forced to confront his painful past and the woman who betrayed him, the beautiful widow Elizabeth Clemens Holloway, the woman he once loved.

Now Reese must face his toughest challenge—staying away from the lovely, lonely widow he could never trust when all he can think of is getting her into his bed.

I hope you’ll watch for Reese’s Bride, and that you enjoy!

All best wishes,

Kat

Royal’s Bride
Kat Martin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To the Martin family, all such wonderful people.

I’m so lucky to have them!

One

England, 1854

Royal Dewar crossed the massive oak-beamed entry of Bransford Castle, his tall black riding boots ringing on the wide-planked wooden floor. As he strode past the main drawing room, so impressive with its high, Tudor-style ceilings and heavy beams, he tried to ignore the worn Persian carpets, the way the bright reds and vivid blues he recalled from his youth had faded to shadowy, lackluster hues.

As he climbed the wide, carved mahogany staircase, he tried not to notice the feel of the wooden banister beneath his hand, once polished to a rich patina but now dull from years of neglect.

He had been home for less than two weeks, returned to England from his family’s plantation, Sugar Reef, in Barbados, where he had been living for the past seven years. His father had fallen ill and the family solicitor, Mr. Edward Pinkard, had sent for him.

The Duke of Bransford is dying, the letter had said. In all haste, my lord, please come home before it is too late.

He was home at last, grateful to have this brief time with his father, but the house was dreary and in desperate need of repair, and he was unused to being cooped up inside. At dawn, after checking on his father’s condition, he had headed for the stables. He hadn’t ridden Bransford lands in the past eight years and he looked forward to becoming reacquainted with his home.

Though the winter wind was chill, the sky gray and cloudy, Royal enjoyed the ride immensely, surprising himself a bit. The hot climate of Barbados had seeped into his bones and his skin was sun-darkened from his work out in the sugarcane fields. Yet this morning, with the brisk wind in his face and the open fields stretching as far as he could see, he realized how much he had missed England.

It was late morning when he returned to the house, swinging down from the big gray stallion that had been a gift on his twenty-first birthday, a colt he had named Jupiter that now stood seventeen hands high. He handed the reins to a waiting groom.

“See he gets an extra ration of oats, will you, Jimmy?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Feeling only a little guilty for leaving with his father so ill, Royal hurried into the house and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Striding down the hall, he paused for a moment to collect himself outside the door to the duke’s bedroom suite.

A strip of light seeped from beneath the heavy wooden panel, indicating a lamp burned inside. Royal turned the silver handle, opened the door and strode into the massive, dimly lit chamber. Across the room, his father lay beneath the covers of a huge four-poster bed encased in heavy gold velvet hangings, the shell of the man he had once been.

The duke’s valet and most trusted servant, George Middleton, hurried forward on long, spindly legs, his shoulders stooped from years of service and now resignation.

“It is good you are back, my lord.”

“How is he, Middleton?” Royal pulled the tie on his long scarlet woolen cloak and allowed the valet to sweep it from his shoulders.

“I am afraid, my lord, each day he grows weaker. Waiting for Lord Reese to arrive is all that keeps him going.”

Royal nodded. He prayed his brother, two years younger than his own twenty-nine years and a major in the British cavalry, would reach Bransford before it was too late. His third and youngest brother, Rule, had already arrived, home from his studies at Oxford.

Royal glanced toward the velvet curtains and saw Rule sitting in the shadows next to their father’s bedside. Rule rose and started forward. Tall and broad-shouldered with the lean-muscled build of an athlete, Rule looked a good deal like his siblings: same straight nose, carved features and solid jaw, but unlike Royal, who had the dark blond hair and golden-brown eyes of their mother, both Reese and Rule were black-haired, with the brilliant blue eyes that belonged to the duke.

“He’s been asking for you.” Rule moved into the flickering light of the lamp on a nearby rosewood dresser, the dangling prisms throwing off a rainbow of colors. “He’s been rambling a bit. He says there is a promise you must make. He says he cannot die in peace unless you vow to see it done.”

Royal nodded, more curious than concerned. All three brothers loved their father. And all three had abandoned him years ago to follow their own selfish dreams. They owed the Duke of Bransford. His sons would do whatever he asked of them.

Following in Middleton’s wake, his brother strode past Royal out the door and closed it softly behind him, leaving him alone in the gloomy, airless room. His father had suffered three separate strokes, the first three years ago, and each more debilitating than the last. Royal should have come back to England after the first, but his father’s letters had assured him of his recovery, and Royal had wanted to believe it. He wanted to stay at Sugar Reef.

He looked down at the frail old man on the bed, once a man of unbelievable power and strength. It was sheer force of will, Royal believed, that had kept his father alive this long.

“Royal …?”

He moved to the bed, settled himself in the chair his youngest brother had vacated. “I’m right here, Father.” He reached out and clasped the duke’s thin, cold hand. Though it was warm in the bedroom, he made a mental note to stoke up the flames in the hearth.

“I am sorry … my son,” the duke said in a raspy voice, “for the poor legacy … I have left you. I have failed you … and your … brothers.”

“It’s all right, Father. Once you are back on your feet—”

“Do not talk … nonsense, boy.” He took a few wheezing breaths, his mouth drooping slightly, and Royal fell silent. “I’ve lost it all. I am not … not even sure exactly how it happened. Somehow it just … slipped away.”

Royal didn’t have to ask what his father meant. The furniture missing from the drawing rooms, the bare spots on the walls where exquisite gilt-framed paintings once had hung, the general dilapidated condition of what had once been one of the grandest houses in England told the story.

“In time, our fortune can be rebuilt,” Royal said. “The Bransford dukedom will be as mighty as it ever was.”

“Yes … I am certain it will be.” He coughed, dragged in a shaky breath. “I know I can … count on you, Royal … you and your brothers. But it won’t be easy.”

“I will see it done, Father, I promise you.”

“And so you … shall. And I am going to help you … even after I am dead and buried.”

Royal’s chest squeezed. He knew his father was going to die. It was only a matter of time. Still, it was difficult to accept that a man once as strong and vital as the duke would actually be gone.

“Did you hear what I said … Royal?”

He had, but only dimly. “Yes, Father, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“There is a way … my son. The simplest … of ways. Marriage to the right woman will give you … the money you need.” His frail hold tightened on Royal’s hand. “I have found her, son. The perfect … woman.”

Royal straightened in his chair, certain his father must have returned to his former rambling.

“She is beautiful …” the duke continued. “An exquisite creature … worthy of becoming your duchess.” The old man’s strength seemed to grow with every word, and for a moment, the dull glaze over his eyes lifted, turning them the fierce blue of his youth. “She is an heiress, my boy … inherited a fortune from her grandfather. And the size of her dowry is incredible. You will be a wealthy man again.”

“You should rest. I can come back—”

“Listen to me, son. I have already spoken to her … father, a man named Henry Caulfield. Caulfield dotes on her. He is determined … to give her a title. The arrangements have already … been made.” He wheezed in a breath, coughed, but his hold on Royal’s hand never weakened. “After a suitable period of mourning … you will marry Jocelyn Caulfield. With her fortune … and your resolve … you can rebuild the house and return our lands to their former glory.”

The duke’s grip grew fierce. Royal was amazed he had that much strength. And he realized his father wasn’t rambling. Indeed, he knew exactly what he was saying. “Promise me you will do it. Say you will marry the girl.”

Royal’s heart was thumping oddly. He owed his father, yet deep inside, some part of him wanted to refuse, to rebel against a life that had been dictated for him. Though he had been trained to assume the duties of duke, he hadn’t expected to face those duties so soon.

His mind rushed backward. At two-and-twenty, he had hied himself off to adventure in the Caribbean. He had taken over the running of the family plantation. The vast acreage had been of little value when he had assumed the role as owner. Through hours of back-breaking labor, he had created a domain he could be proud of, made the plantation the success it was today.

He had known one day he would be called back home. He had known he would face responsibilities beyond anything he had handled in the past.

But he hadn’t expected his father to die so soon.

Or to inherit a title and lands that had been stripped completely bare.

His father’s grip slackened, his energy drained. The corner of his mouth drooped as it had before. “Promise me …”

Royal swallowed. His father was dying. How could he refuse his dying wish?

“Please …” the duke whispered.

“I will marry her, Father, as you wish. You have my word.”

The duke made a faint nod of his head. A slow breath whispered out and his eyes slowly closed. For an instant, Royal feared he was dead. Then his chest weakly inflated, and Royal felt a sweep of relief. Releasing his father’s cold hand, he slipped it beneath the covers and eased away from the bed. He paused long enough to build up the fire, then left the suite.

As he stepped outside, he spotted Rule pacing the hallway. His brother jerked to a halt as Royal quietly closed the door.

“Is he …?”

“He is as he was.” He released a breath. “He has arranged a marriage. The woman comes with an enormous dowry, enough to begin rebuilding the family lands and holdings. I have agreed to the match.”

Rule frowned, drawing his black eyebrows together. “Are you certain that is what you wish to do?”

Royal’s mouth barely curved. “I am not sure of anything, brother, except that I have made a vow and now I must keep it.”

The burial of the Duke of Bransford took place on a windy, overcast, frigid morning in January. The proceedings had actually begun several days earlier, with a lengthy funeral service given by the Archbishop at Westminster Abbey. It was attended by a score of nobles and dozens of London’s elite.

Afterward, the coffin was transported to the village of Bransford via an extravagant black carriage and four matching black horses for a graveside service and the final interment of the late duke’s body in the family’s private plot adjacent to the village church.

A number of family members were in attendance, including the duke’s aging aunt, Agatha Edgewood, Dowager Countess of Tavistock, as well as numerous other aunts and cousins, some Royal hadn’t known existed. Some, like vultures, had come to discover if they might receive a bequest in the late duke’s will. Those few had a surprise in store for them since little unentailed property or monies remained in the family coffers.

Royal stared down at the gleaming bronze casket that held his father’s remains and a thick lump swelled in his throat. He should have come home sooner, should have spent more time with the man who had sired him. He should have helped him manage his vast affairs. Perhaps if he had, the dukedom wouldn’t have fallen into ruin. Perhaps his father wouldn’t have worried himself into an early grave.

Royal gazed at the coffin, which blurred for an instant behind a film of tears. His father was gone. The sixth Duke of Bransford had passed away peacefully two hours after the arrival of his middle son.

Reese and the duke had been cosseted together briefly, and another vow was made. By no later than the date his twelve-year enlistment was up, Reese would leave the military and return to Wiltshire. He would take over the lands and manor at Briarwood, a nearby property Reese had inherited from their maternal grandfather. He would rebuild those lands and make them and his life productive.

Reese, the most stubborn of the duke’s three offspring, enjoyed his freedom, his military life and his travels. He wanted nothing less than being bound to a chunk of land he saw as a place that would hold him prisoner. But in the end, as his father’s life drained away before his very eyes, Reese had agreed.

Rule, the wildest and least responsible, had made his pledge before Royal arrived. The duke believed an alliance with the Americans was in the family’s best interest. His youngest son had pledged to do whatever it took to make that alliance a fact.

The vicar’s words cut into Royal’s thoughts, turning them away from events of the past few weeks and returning him to the words being said over his father’s coffin.

A sharp wind tossed his long woolen cloak and cut through his heavy black tailcoat and dark gray trousers as he stood at the graveside. Next to him, Reese wore the scarlet-and-white dress uniform of a major in the British cavalry, the breeze slashing at his thick, wavy black hair. He was the most sober of the brothers, his features harder, reflecting the life he lived.

Royal’s gaze moved to his youngest brother. Rule had been an unexpected addition to the family, born almost six years after Reese to a mother in ill health who had been warned against having more children. Amanda Dewar had died in childbirth, leaving Rule in the dubious care of a nanny, his two older brothers and a father who often drank to bury his grief or hid himself away in his study.

Rule had survived to become the most reckless of the three. He had a reputation as an incorrigible rake and he wore it proudly. He loved the ladies and seemed to make it a personal challenge to bed as many beautiful women as he possibly could.

Royal almost smiled. His own future had already been decided. He would marry a woman named Jocelyn Caulfield. A woman he had yet to meet. She was out of the country at present, enjoying a European tour with her mother. Royal was glad.

The period of mourning for his father would last a year. There would be time enough to arrange a marriage after that.

Meanwhile, he had money of his own, income from Sugar Reef, funds sufficient to keep the dukedom afloat, if not enough to rebuild the fortune his father had lost.

In time it would happen, Royal vowed. He would not rest until he saw it done.

In the meantime, he would learn what he could of his duties as duke, investigate his holdings, see how best to resurrect his father’s flagging investments and try to make them profitable again.

As his father had said, it wouldn’t be easy.

Royal vowed that by the time he was wed, he would know how to best use the money gained from the marriage his father had arranged.

Two

London, England One Year Later

Jocelyn Caulfield stood in front of the cheval glass in her bedroom overlooking the gardens at Meadowbrook, her family’s mansion at the edge of Mayfair in a district of larger, newer homes. Dressed in a corset, chemise and drawers, the garments as ruffled as the white silk counterpane on her four-poster bed and the crisscross curtains at the windows, she surveyed her curvaceous figure in the mirror.

“I hope I am not putting on weight.” She clamped her hands on the bone stays that trimmed her waist to a scant eighteen inches and frowned, pulling her sleek, dark eyebrows together over a pair of violet eyes. “What do you think, Lily?”

Her third cousin and companion of the past six years, Lily Moran, laughed from a few feet away. “You have a perfect figure and you know it.”

Jocelyn smiled mischievously. “Do you think the duke will notice?”

Lily just shook her head. “Every man who sees you notices, Jo.” Though the women were both average in height, unlike Jocelyn, Lily was blond and slender, with pale sea-green eyes and lips she considered a little too full. She was pretty in a more subtle, less vibrant way, not at all like Jo, who was the sort to stop a man where he stood and leave him simply staring.

“Have you finished packing for the trip?” Jocelyn asked. Which meant, Lily, have you also finished mine? Jo didn’t trust Elsie, her ladies’ maid, to choose exactly the right wardrobe for a trip to meet her soon-to-be betrothed, the Duke of Bransford. It was Lily she trusted, Lily, one year older, whom she had come to depend on over the years.

“I am nearly finished,” Lily said. “I have everything but your undergarments laid out for you in your dressing room. All you have to do is have Phoebe pack the gowns away in your trunks before you leave.”

Jocelyn turned to survey her figure from a different angle. “I wonder what the house will be like. Father says Bransford Castle is quite a dreadful place—though I gather, until the last few years, it was one of the grandest homes in England. It isn’t truly a castle, you know. It is only three hundred years old. It is huge, Father says, four stories high, built in a U shape with an interior garden and any number of turrets and towers. It even has a hedge maze.”

Jocelyn’s smile displayed a set of perfect white teeth. “Father says I should have a marvelous time putting it back to rights.”

Lily smiled indulgently. “I am certain you will.” Though she imagined Jo would be bored with the project after the first six months and her mother would wind up finishing the remodeling and redecorating the newly titled duchess would require of her lavish country home.

“I hope Mother and I will be able to endure such quarters. I am glad we shan’t be staying much more than a week.” Just long enough for Jocelyn and her future betrothed to get acquainted. “I am so glad I decided you should travel to Bransford a few days early. That should give you time to make the place comfortable for us.”

“I’m sure the duke will do everything in his power to see to you and your mother’s comfort, Jocelyn.”

Jo reached over and took hold of Lily’s hand. “But you will take care of it personally, won’t you? You know the things that please me … exactly how I like my cocoa in the mornings, how hot I like the water in my bath. You will prepare the servants, explain my special needs?”

“Of course.”

Jocelyn started to turn away, then whirled back. “Oh, and don’t forget to take the dried rose petals. They scent my bath just perfectly.”

“I won’t forget.” Lily had been taking care of Jocelyn since the day she had arrived at Meadowbrook six years ago. It had been quite a change for Lily, who had been living in poverty since her parents had died of the cholera when she was twelve years old.

On her sixteenth birthday, her uncle, Jack Moran, had made the announcement that Lily would be leaving the attic garret where they lived. From that day forward, she would be residing with her wealthy cousin, Henry Caulfield, and his wife, Matilda, acting as companion to their fifteen-year-old daughter and only child, Jocelyn.

Lily hadn’t wanted to go. She loved her uncle. He and his friends were the only family she had, once her parents were gone. She had begged him to let her stay, but he had refused. Jack Moran was a sharper. He earned his living by taking money from other people. Once Lily had begun to mature into a woman, he was determined she would escape the sort of life he led.

She remembered their last day together as if it were burned into her brain.

“It’s just too dangerous, Lily,” he had said. “‘Twas only last week you dropped that man’s wallet and nearly got nabbed by the police. You’re growing up, luv, becoming a woman. I want you to have a better life, the kind your mama and papa would have wanted you to have. I should have done this long before now, but I …”

“You what, Uncle Jack?” she asked tearfully.

“But you’re all the family I have, luv, and I’m going to miss you.”

Lily remembered how hard she had cried that day and the awful, sick feeling in her stomach when her uncle left her at the door of Henry Caulfield’s mansion. She hadn’t seen Uncle Jack since that fateful day and Lord, how she missed him. Yet, deep down inside, she knew he had done the right thing.

Lily looked over at Jocelyn. “I shall be leaving first thing in the morning. The newspaper says a storm may be coming in, perhaps even snow. I want to get there ahead of the weather.”

“Do take the traveling coach, dear. Just send it back once you arrive. If it should rain or snow, Mother and I will wait a few more days, leave as soon as it clears enough to travel. That should give you plenty of time to put things in order.”

“I am certain it will.” Lily walked over to the gilt and ivory dresser and began to sort through Jocelyn’s night-wear, choosing what to include in her trunks. “I heard the duke’s aunt Agatha will be there to act as hostess for our visit.”

“So I gather. I’ve never met her. Apparently, she rarely comes to London.”

“Nor does your duke.”

Jo sniffed as if the thought was entirely repugnant. “I am certain, once we are wed, that will change.”

Lily just smiled and pulled out a soft cotton nightgown with roses embroidered around the ruffled neckline. “They say your duke is quite something—tall and well built, with hair the color of ancient gold. I’ve heard he is incredibly handsome.”

One of Jocelyn’s dark eyebrows went up. “He had better be. I shan’t marry him if he is unpleasant to look at—even if he is a duke.” 11

But Lily imagined that Jo would marry the man no matter what he looked like. She wanted to be a duchess. She wanted to continue the lavish lifestyle she was used to, wanted the attention and high-ranking social position that came with the title. In truth, Jocelyn wanted everything.

And thanks to a father who spoiled her no end, she usually got what she wanted.

“You are leaving, Your Grace?” The butler, Jeremy Greaves, hurried forward as Royal strode across the entry toward the door. “If I may be so bold, Your Grace, your visitors are expected to arrive at any moment. What will your betrothed think if you are not here to greet her?”

What indeed? “I remind you, Greaves, we are not yet officially betrothed.”

“I understand, sir. Still, she will expect you to properly welcome her to Bransford Castle.”

Undoubtedly. It was the height of bad manners to be gone from the house when the lady and her mother arrived. He glanced at his butler, a gray-haired old man with watery blue eyes, and kept walking. It occurred to him that few servants would be bold enough to gainsay a duke, but that didn’t stop Greaves or Middleton, who had lived at Bransford since before Royal was born.

“If she gets here before my return,” he said, “tell her I was called out unexpectedly. Tell her I will be back very shortly.”

“But, sir—”

Pulling on his kidskin gloves, Royal continued toward the heavy wooden door. Greaves scurried ahead and pulled it open, and Royal strode outside.

A storm had blown in last night, but instead of raining, it had snowed. He paused at the top of the wide stone steps to survey the beauty of the frozen landscape, the sun shining down through the clouds, making the countryside glisten. The circular drive in front of the house was covered by several inches of snow and the naked branches of the trees along the lane glittered with a sparkling layer of gleaming white.

Royal took a deep breath of the clean, crisp air and descended the steps. One of the grooms had his gray stallion, Jupiter, saddled and waiting. Fortunately, his father hadn’t had the heart to sell Royal’s favorite horse. Dressed in riding breeches, a dark blue tailcoat and high black boots, he vaulted into the saddle, his heavy scarlet cloak swirling out around him.

He whirled the stallion, nudged the animal into a trot, then a canter, the sound of hoofbeats muffled by the thick layer of snow. As Jupiter carried him down the road, he cast a last glance at poor old Greaves, who stared worriedly from the porch.

He would be back at the house before Jocelyn arrived, he told himself. In the meanwhile, he needed a little time to prepare. The fact he’d had more than a year to ready himself for this meeting seemed inconsequential. He simply wasn’t yet ready for marriage and certainly not to a woman he had never met.

Still, he would keep his word.

Royal urged the stallion into a gallop and turned off on a narrow dirt road that bordered the fields surrounding the house. It was white for as far as he could see, the trees twinkling in the sunshine as if they’d been sprayed with starlight.

Twelve thousand acres surrounded Bransford Castle. That much land meant dozens of tenants, all of whom looked to him to make important decisions. The acreage was entailed with the title, or much of it would probably have been sold.

Royal shifted in the saddle. He didn’t want to think of his duties now. He simply wanted to clear his head and prepare himself to meet the woman who would share his future.

He rode for a while, took several different lanes and crossed a half-dozen fields. It was time he returned to the house, time to accept what could not be changed.

He took a different route home, skirting a dense grove of yew trees and eventually winding up on the road leading from the village to the castle. As he rounded a bend in the lane, something glinted off the snow up ahead. With the sun reflecting off the ice, it was incredibly bright. Royal squinted and tried to make out what it was.

Urging the horse from a walk to a canter, he rode closer, began to hear an odd, creaking sound in the light breeze blowing off the fields. All of a sudden, the images all came together, a carriage lying on its side, one of the wheels spinning whenever the breeze pushed it. In the field to the left, the carriage horses, still in their traces, stood huddled together as if awaiting further instruction.

Royal spotted the coachman lying next to the road. He urged the stallion closer, rode up beside him and swung down from the saddle. Kneeling next to the driver who lay unconscious in the snow, he checked for cuts or broken bones. A nasty gash on the head seemed the man’s only injury. Royal made a quick survey of the area, searching for anyone who might have been in the carriage and been thrown from the coach. He climbed up and looked through the open door, but saw no one and returned to the man on the ground.

Apparently sensing Royal’s presence, the coachman groaned and began to awaken.

“Take it easy, friend. There’s been an accident. Don’t try to move too swiftly.”

The beefy man swallowed, moving his Adam’s apple up and down. “The lady …? Is she … is she all right?”

Worry gripped him. A woman had been in the carriage. Royal glanced back at the overturned conveyance, noticing for the first time the opulence of the gleaming black coach. His gaze shot to the four blooded bay horses in the field, animals of the finest caliber, and a chill went down his spine.

“Jocelyn …” Rising swiftly to his feet, he began a second search of the area around the coach. Vast fields of white blinded him and for a moment, he couldn’t see. A further search and he spotted her, lying like a broken doll in the thick layer of white covering the field. She was dressed in a modestly cut gown of rose velvet, her fur-lined cloak bunched beneath her still figure.

Royal hurried toward her, knelt at her side. He checked for a pulse and felt a strong, steady throbbing beneath the soft skin at the base of her throat. She was unconscious, but he saw no blood or other obvious injuries. He gently checked her limbs for broken bones but discovered none that he could see. He prayed her injuries were not internal and that she would soon recover.

When a soft moan slipped from her lips, he took her cold hand and rubbed it between his gloved fingers, hoping to warm her, hoping she would awaken. “It is all right,” he soothed. “I’m the Duke of Bransford and I’m going to take you home.” He was hesitant to move her, but when her eyes fluttered, lifting long golden lashes away from her pale cheeks, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Your … Grace,” she whispered.

“Just lie still. There was an accident. You’re safe now and everything is going to be all right.”

For the first time, he allowed himself to look at her. She was as beautiful as his father had said, with a slender figure and delicate features. Lying in the snow, her skin was nearly the same white hue. Her mouth was full, her lips delicately curved, though paler, he imagined, than they usually were. A bonnet fashioned of the same rose velvet as her gown lay several feet away. Her golden hair had come loose from its pins and tumbled around her slender shoulders. Her eyes opened wider, a lovely pale shade of green.

She moistened her lips. “I think I … must have hit my head.”

“Yes … Perhaps when you were tossed from the carriage.” He removed his glove and felt her cheeks, her forehead, as smooth and clear as glass. “Are you hurt? Can you tell where you might be injured?”

Her pretty mouth faintly curved. “I am too cold to know.”

He almost smiled. He could feel her shivering and wondered how long she had been lying out here in the snow. He thanked God he had come along when he did. “I need to get you somewhere warm. I’m going to lift you. If it hurts in any way, tell me and I will stop.”

She nodded and her eyes slid closed. Very carefully he lifted her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. The big gray stallion stood a few feet away. Royal set her sideways in the saddle then swung up behind her, settled her gently in front of him and eased her back against his chest.

“All right?” he asked, sliding his arm protectively around her waist to hold her securely in place.

She turned her head and her sea-green eyes fluttered open. When they settled on his face, something tugged deep inside him. Royal felt as if a hand had reached inside his chest and begun to squeeze his heart.

“Just a little … dizzy.” Her eyes slowly closed, then flashed open again. “The coachman … Mr. Gibbons … is he … is he all right?”

Royal’s gaze went in search of the man. The driver was on his feet and walking into the field to collect the horses.

“He appears to be fine. Was there anyone else in the carriage?”

“No, just me.”

Her mother was to have come with her, he thought. It seemed odd she would be traveling without so much as a ladies’ maid.

The explanation would have to wait. Royal rode toward the coachman, careful to keep a firm hold on the lady in his arms.

“Can you make it back to the village?”

The driver grunted a yes. “Just a bit of a bash on the head, is all. I’ll ride the wheelhorse back to town, get the animals properly stabled till I can put the carriage to rights.”

“Good man. I’m the Duke of Bransford. I’ll see to the lady. If you need anything, just send word to the house. Everyone knows where it is.”

“‘Twere highwaymen,” the man said darkly. “Tried to outrun ‘em, but there were ice on the road. They were gone when ye got here?”

“I saw no one, just the overturned carriage.” A jolt of anger followed his answer. Brigands had attacked the coach! Perhaps they had searched the overturned vehicle and taken anything of value. A similar incident had happened a month ago on the road outside Swansdowne, a nearby village. Royal had hoped it was a onetime occurrence.

He flicked a last glance at the coachman, caught a wave as the stout man began leading the horses onto the road then swung up on the back of the wheelhorse. Royal watched him ride away, thinking of the highwaymen who had caused the accident. He gazed out across the fields but saw no sign of them.

An angry sigh whispered out, turning white in the frosty air. He would worry about the highwaymen in due course. In the meantime, his lady needed care.

Royal returned his attention to the woman in his arms—the woman he was going to marry. As he looked into the serenity of her lovely pale face and recalled her sweetly feminine figure and soft green eyes, he thought that perhaps being married wouldn’t be such a terrible fate after all.

Three

Handing Jupiter’s reins to a waiting groom, Royal eased Jocelyn off the horse and down into his arms. Greaves made an odd, sputtering sound as he opened the door and saw the Duke of Bransford carrying a half-conscious woman up the wide stone steps of the porch.

“There was a carriage accident on the road a few miles this side of town,” Royal explained. “Miss Caulfield was tossed out of the vehicle. Send someone to fetch the physician.” Greaves scurried toward a footman who stood at the back of the entry, one of only fifteen servants in the house, all that were left of the eighty-five men and women the household had once employed.

The footman bolted for the door while Greaves dispatched orders to various other servants, including instructions to fetch the lady’s trunks from the overturned rig. Royal didn’t slow, just continued up the wide, carved mahogany staircase, the lady nestled against his chest, her rose-velvet skirts draped over his arm.

“She needs someone to attend her,” he said as Greaves hurried to catch up with him. “Has Aunt Agatha arrived yet?”

“She sent word ahead. She should be here within the hour.”

He nodded, looked down at his future wife. “Which room is to be hers?”

“The duchess’s suite, Your Grace. It was the nicest in the house.”

Because his father couldn’t bear to sell the elegant furnishings in his beloved wife’s bedroom. Though it wasn’t quite the thing to ensconce a duke’s future bride in a room adjoining his before they were married, it was probably the right decision.

Royal turned the silver handle on the door and kicked it open with his boot. Greaves raced ahead to turn back the covers on the big four-poster bed, then headed for the windows to draw back the heavy damask curtains. The chamber was done in a soft, sea-foam green with lovely rosewood furniture, a room his mother had loved.

He wondered if Jocelyn would approve, looked down at her as he laid her on the bed, and realized her eyes were open and that they were the exact soft green hue as the chamber.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. Pulling off his gloves, he reached down to take hold of her hand. It was icy cold and he realized she was shivering.

“The fire, Greaves. The lady needs warming.” But the old man had already set to the task and low flames were even now beginning to lick the hearth. A soft knock sounded and, with his permission, the door swung open to admit one of the chambermaids, who carried a longhandled warming pan hot from the kitchen. Another

maid appeared to help remove the lady’s gown and get her settled beneath the heated sheets.

“I’ll come back once you are at rest,” he promised, stepping impatiently into the hall to wait. He could hear the maid chattering away while she warmed the sheets and found himself smiling at Jocelyn’s sigh of pleasure as she settled into the deep feather mattress.

Another maid appeared. “I’ve a heated brick, Your Grace.”

He nodded his approval and she disappeared into the room to place the warm brick beneath the lady’s feet.

“It feels wonderful,” Jocelyn said to the women as they quietly fled the room. “Thank you all so much.”

Royal didn’t wait for the door to close, just eased it open and walked back into the room. He smiled down at the woman in his mother’s bed and tried not to think that once they were wed, she would be spending most of her nights in his. “I hope you are feeling a little better.”

Jocelyn smiled up at him. “My head still hurts, but now that I am warm, I am feeling a good deal more myself.”

“The physician should be here soon, and my aunt is due to arrive at any moment, so you will be properly chaperoned.”

“I look forward to meeting Lady Tavistock.”

“As she looks forward to meeting you.”

She moved to sit up a little and winced.

“Are you certain you are well enough to sit?”

“I need to get my bearings.”

He reached over and helped her adjust the pillows.

“Thank you. I appreciate your care of me, Your Grace. When the highwaymen attacked, I wasn’t sure I would ever reach this place alive.”

Instead of leaving as he had planned, he sat down in the chair beside the bed. “Tell me what happened.”

Jocelyn nibbled her lush bottom lip and Royal felt a stirring in his loins it was far too soon to feel.

“I am not completely certain. It all happened so quickly. The coach was rolling toward the house and of a sudden I heard men shouting, then the sound of galloping horses.”

“Go on,” he gently urged.

“I leaned out the window and saw them. They were pounding down on us, four men, each wearing a cloth tied over his nose and mouth. They had almost reached us when the carriage hit a patch of ice. I remember the coach tipping sideways. I remember seeing the doors fly open. That is the last I recall.”

He squeezed her hand. “It is over now. Do not think of it anymore. Just try to get some rest.”

She smiled at him so sweetly his chest tightened. “I’m immensely grateful you came along when you did. If you hadn’t, I should probably still be lying out there, frozen utterly stiff by now.”

He smiled. “But I found you and now you are safe.”

She gave him a last soft smile and her eyes slowly closed. Royal resisted an urge to lean over and press his lips against her forehead. “Sleep well, Miss Caulfield.”

Her lovely pale green eyes popped open. “Oh, I am terribly sorry for the misunderstanding, Your Grace. But you see, I am not Miss Caulfield. I am her cousin—Miss Lily Moran.”

Royal stalked down the hall toward his study. He shoved open the door and walked straight to the sideboard, dragged the crystal stopper out of a decanter of brandy and poured himself a liberal drink.

Upending the glass, he swallowed the burning liquid in one big gulp, hissed out a breath and poured another, then turned and started toward the fire blazing in the hearth.

“As you rarely imbibe before nightfall and not much even then, I take it your day has not got off to a very promising start.”

Royal’s head jerked toward the sound of his best friend’s voice. Sheridan Knowles, Viscount Wellesley, lounged in a deep leather chair in front of the fire.

“So far, it’s been a rotter.”

“I heard about the brigands. Greaves says your lady was in the carriage that was attacked. I hope she is all right.”

“The lady is going to be fine. Unfortunately, she is not mine.”

Sherry sat forward in his chair, a tall man with light brown hair and a slightly long, aristocratic nose. His eyes were green, but a far more brilliant shade than the soft color belonging to the woman upstairs.

One of Sherry’s finely arched eyebrows went up. “An interesting statement. Care to explain?”

Royal sighed. “The woman in the carriage was not Jocelyn Caulfield. Her name is Lily Moran and she is Jocelyn’s cousin.”

“I see … Well, actually, I don’t understand a’tall. What exactly is your future fiancée’s cousin doing here instead of your unofficial fiancée?”

“Apparently, Miss Moran acts as companion to Miss Caulfield. She came ahead to prepare things for her cousin and Mrs. Caulfield.”

“Prepare things …? She sounds more like a servant than a companion.”

Royal took a drink of his brandy, felt the comforting burn. “I am not exactly sure what role she plays. I only know she is beautiful and gentle and if I am to be married, I should have been happy to take her to wife.”

“Ah, I think I am beginning to see.” Sheridan rose gracefully from the chair, walked over and poured himself a brandy. “After meeting the lady, you had begun to resign yourself to the inevitable. Now you are back where you started, uncertain what might lay ahead.”

“I suppose that’s about it.”

Sheridan slid the stopper back into the decanter, making the crystal ring. “Best to think positively. You were satisfied merely with the cousin. Perhaps your future bride will be far more beautiful and even more to your liking.”

But Royal didn’t think so. There was something about Lily Moran that had struck him from the moment he had laid eyes on her lying there in the snow. The feeling had grown stronger as he had witnessed her worry for the coachman and sensed her gentleness, a quality that would have complemented his more aggressive nature. And of course there was the powerful physical attraction he had felt the instant he lifted her into his arms.

He would have to subdue it. He would soon be betrothed to another. Miss Lily Moran was never meant to be his.

Royal lifted his glass and downed a goodly portion of his brandy.

“So what of the highwaymen?” Sherry asked. “That is the reason I am here. As soon as the coachman reached the village, word spread like a snowstorm. As there was also an incident last month, I thought perhaps we should discuss what might be done.”

Sheridan lived at Wellesley Hall, his country estate, lands that bordered Bransford to the east. Royal and his brothers had grown up with Sherry, who was Royal’s same age. They’d been chums at Oxford, both of them members of the school’s famous eight-man sculling team. Royal and Sherry and four others of the eight had remained close friends ever since. The other two team members had joined the military but still kept in touch as much as they could.

Sherry had even traveled to Barbados for an extended visit when he realized Royal did not intend a quick return home.

“I had hoped the first robbery might be an anomaly,” Royal said. “I hoped the men might take their ill-gotten gains and hie themselves off somewhere to spend it, never to be seen or heard from again.”

“Apparently that is not the case.”

“No, apparently not.”

“The sheriff has already been informed. He will probably wish to pay a call on your … excuse me, on Miss Moran.”

Royal glanced upward, as if he could see through the ceiling into her bedroom. “I’ll tell her. At the moment, she is still not feeling well enough for visitors.”

“And the robbers?”

“It’s been a month since their last attack. I doubt they will strike again anytime soon. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to organize some sort of nightly patrol.”

“Good idea. I’ll see to it myself. My men will take the first two weeks. If nothing happens, yours can take the next.”

Royal nodded. He felt better knowing the roads would be protected. He did, after all, still have a bride making her way to his house.

Royal swore softly and swallowed the last of his drink.

Lily slept the rest of the day and didn’t awaken until the following morning. She glanced toward the window to see a dense layer of clouds hanging low in a gray-purple sky and a spray of white flakes floating down to earth. Noticing she lay in a huge four-poster bed and the walls of the room were a soft pale green instead of the cream color of her room at Meadowbrook, her mind spun, trying to recall exactly where she was.

Then it all came tumbling back: the trip to the country, the highwaymen and the overturned carriage.

The Duke of Bransford coming to her rescue.

His image came sharply into focus and her heart began thrumming as she remembered her first sight of him. Kneeling beside her, against the white of the snow, he looked like a tall, golden angel come to earth. If her head hadn’t been pounding like the very devil, she might have believed she was dead.

Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could recall the way it felt to be held in his arms, remember his worry for her safety, his gentle care of her.

Lily shook her head to dislodge the memory, making her head throb again. The duke belonged to her cousin, a woman far more capable of dealing with a man of his power and social position.

Lily knew the duke needed money to rebuild his family holdings. It was the reason for the alliance being made between the Dewars and the Caulfields. Lily didn’t even have a dowry. And even were she wealthy as Croesus, her past would never allow her to enter into such a lofty union.

Which, of course, didn’t matter in the least.

Jocelyn would be arriving a few days hence and her cousin’s stunning beauty and voluptuous figure would snare the duke’s interest as it did most every male. One look at Jo would offset the brief flash of disappointment Lily had glimpsed in the duke’s tawny eyes when he had learned she was not his future betrothed.

If it hadn’t been entirely imagined.

Lily took a deep breath and reached for the silver bell the chambermaid had placed beside the bed. She rang it briefly and a few moments later the door swung open, admitting one of the young women who had attended her last night, Penelope, she recalled.

“Good morning, miss.” The red-haired girl made a very proper curtsy.

“Good morning, Penelope.”

“It’s just Penny, miss.”

“All right, then, Penny. Could you please help me get dressed? I am still a little weak.”

“Aye, miss. Your trunks were collected from the carriage. I’ll have them brought up to your room while I fetch tea and cakes for your breakfast.”

“Thank you, that would be lovely.”

It was less than an hour later that Lily was dressed and ready to face the day. Descending the stairs, careful to keep a hand on the banister in case she experienced a fresh round of dizziness, she went in search of the duke.

She looked much more presentable this morning, in another simple, remodeled version of one of Jocelyn’s gowns, a warm russet velvet with cream lace trailing from the sleeves and running in small rows down the front. The maid had drawn Lily’s silver-blond hair into a tight chignon at the nape of her neck and she had pinched her cheeks to add a bit of color.

At the bottom of the stairs, she encountered the butler, a thin, elderly man with milky blue eyes. “I am sorry to bother you, Mr …?”

“Greaves,” he said, looking her up and down. “May I help you, Miss Moran?”

“I am looking for His Grace. Would you see if there is a convenient time I might have a word with him?”

“I shall inquire, miss. If you will please follow me, you may await him in the Blue Drawing Room.”

“Thank you.”

He led her in to a once-elegant room off the entry. It had high, molded ceilings, robin’s-egg-blue walls that were in need of a coat of paint and heavy, dark blue velvet draperies. The Persian carpets, a deep royal blue in a paisley design accented with dark green and crimson, were worn but serviceable and immaculately clean.

Her bedroom had also been clean, she reflected, a concern she wouldn’t have to address. She sat down on a blue velvet settee to await the duke’s presence, wondering if he would truly be as handsome as she recalled.

Wondering if now that he realized she was little more than a servant, the duke would see her at all.

She shifted on the sofa, watched the hands on the ormolu clock slowly turn. She glanced up as he walked into the drawing room and her breath hitched. The golden-haired duke was even more beautiful than the angel she recalled. Now that her vision was no longer blurred and her head not throbbing, she could see that he was stunningly good-looking.

And even with his well-formed features and slanting dark gold eyebrows, there was no question of his masculinity. He wore it like the long scarlet cloak that had swirled around him when he had knelt beside her in the snow.

She rose to her feet a little uncertainly and dropped into a curtsy. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

He strode toward her, stopped just a few feet away. “Good morning, Miss Moran.” His eyes were as golden as his hair and as they skimmed over her, she thought she caught a glint of appreciation.

“You appear to be recovering very well. How are you feeling?”

“Much better, I am happy to say. Again, I thank you for your very timely rescue.”

“I assure you it was my pleasure.” The glint was there again, as if there was a secret meaning to his words. She basked in it as his gaze ran over her even more thoroughly. And yet in just a few days, once he met the incredibly lovely creature he would marry, that glint would disappear.

Lily lifted her chin. “I wished to speak to you, Your Grace, in regard to Mrs. Caulfield and your future betrothed, my cousin Jocelyn. The reason I traveled here ahead of time was to insure their visit would be comfortable. Both Mrs. Caulfield and my cousin have rather … specific needs. I am here to see those needs are met.”

His eyebrows drew slightly together. “And your cousin and her mother didn’t believe my staff would be able to handle those needs?”

She had angered him. She could see it in the set of his jaw. “Oh, it isn’t that—truly. Please, I didn’t mean any insult. It is merely that they are used to having things done in a certain fashion. If you would be kind enough to put a few members of your household at my disposal, I am sure I could have everything arranged before they arrive.”

“You are Miss Caulfield’s cousin, is that correct—a member of the family?”

“A distant cousin, yes. The Caulfields were kind enough to take me in after my parents died of the cholera.” She didn’t mention it was four years later and they were barely aware of her existence until her uncle sought them out and asked them for help. Still, she was extremely grateful. It was one of the reasons she worked so hard to please them.

“So you were orphaned,” he said softly, and for an instant she felt the burn of tears. Even after all these years, her parents’ death remained a difficult subject.

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

His look seemed to gentle. “I see …”

And to her humiliation, she thought that indeed he did see. That he realized she was merely a poor relation who lived by the Caulfields’ charity, that she was utterly dependent upon their goodwill. Still, it was far better than living on the street, or in an attic garret, as she had done before.

“The servants won’t be a problem. You may have the use of whomever you wish. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

He studied her a few moments more, assessing her in some way, then he turned and strode out of the drawing room. The instant he disappeared, Lily released the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. Her heart was clattering, beating a frantic tattoo.

It was ridiculous. Things were exactly as they should be. The duke understood her lowly position and his interest was now very properly fixed on Jo.

Ignoring the little pinch in her chest, Lily lifted her skirts and started across the drawing room. She had a great deal of work to do if she was going to be ready for the Caulfields’ arrival. She had almost made it to the door when a frail, silver-haired woman stepped through the open drawing-room door.

“You must be Miss Moran.” The woman smiled, digging creases into her powdered cheeks. “I am Lady Tavistock. My nephew told me I would find you in here.”

Lily sank into a curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

“I arrived yesterday afternoon while you were asleep. I gather you had a rather nasty accident on the road.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Dreadful thing. My nephew said your carriage was attacked by highwaymen and overturned, and that you suffered a head injury. I hope you are feeling better.”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Why don’t we sit down in front of the fire. The weather outside is dismal. A cup of tea should be just the thing.”

She had so much to do before Jocelyn arrived. And yet there was no refusing the wishes of a countess. “That would be delightful, my lady.”

They sat down on the sofa in front of the fire blazing in the hearth and a few minutes later the butler arrived with the tea cart. Tea was served. Casual conversation was made. Lily tried not to glance at the clock on the white marble mantel, but apparently she failed to hide the urgency she was feeling.

“I can tell you are eager to begin your tasks.”

Lily flushed and wished she had been more attentive. “It is only that I have a great deal to do before my cousins arrive.”

“Are your cousins, then, difficult taskmasters?”

She rarely thought of Matilda Caulfield as a cousin, though by her marriage to Henry she certainly was.

“It is nothing like that. It is just that my cousin Jocelyn … depends on me. She trusts me to see to her needs, as I have done these past six years. I do not wish to fail her, or Mrs. Caulfield.”

“I see. And exactly what did your cousin Jocelyn and her mother send you here to do?”

More color rushed into her cheeks. Taking over the duke’s household and assigning tasks to his servants was hardly the proper thing. Still, it was what the Caulfields expected of her and she meant to see it done.

“Only small things, really. I—I need to inform the cook that Miss Caulfield prefers biscuits and cocoa up in her room each morning instead of a meal downstairs. And I’d like to make certain the room she occupies has a nice view of the garden.”

She bit her lip, thinking of the endless items on her list. “My cousin doesn’t do well with dust. I shall need to speak to the housekeeper, make certain the carpets in her bedroom have recently been beaten.”

“I see.”

“Just very small things, truly, my lady. I hope it won’t be too much of a bother.”

Lady Tavistock set her gold-rimmed porcelain cup and saucer down on the table in front of her. “You may do whatever you think is necessary to make our guests comfortable.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

The dowager rose from the sofa and Lily rose, as well.

The lady reached for her cane. “I suppose I had best let you get on with your work.” She smiled. “I enjoyed our visit, Miss Moran.”

Lily relaxed. “As did I, Lady Tavistock.” She watched the dowager countess leave the drawing room, silver hair gleaming in the light of the whale-oil lamps lit to offset the dark, cloudy day, her head held high though her movements were slow and a little wobbly. She was the late duke’s aunt on his mother’s side, Lily knew, a widow who lived in a manor house on one of her late husband’s estates.

Happy to have the meeting behind her, Lily made her way back out to the marble-floored hall. The list of tasks to be completed awaited her upstairs. It was time she got to work.