Royal's Bride

“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.