Rule's Bride

One

London, England

Three years later

“Rule, how good of you to come!” His hostess for the evening, Lady Annabelle Greer, floated toward him across the elaborately decorated ballroom in the London mansion she shared with her husband, Travis. “And I see you have brought Lucas with you.”

Her gaze shifted across the room to where his best friend, Lucas Barclay, made conversation with a delectable young widow he had only just recently met. Rule and Luke had attended Oxford together. Beyond that, they were shirtsleeve relatives of a sort. Rule’s oldest brother, Royal, the Duke of Bransford, was married to a cousin of Luke’s brother’s wife.

Rule returned his attention to his hostess. “It’s good to see you, my lady.” With her light brown hair and clear blue eyes, Annabelle Townsend Greer was nearing thirty and the mother of three children, yet she was still a beautiful woman.

“I’m surprised you came. You are usually too busy working.” She tapped her painted fan against his shoulder. “Don’t you know it is highly improper for a member of the aristocracy to labor for money like a commoner?” She grinned. “But then, none of you Dewars have ever given a fig for propriety.”

Rule grinned back. “I might say the same for you, my lady.” He could still recall rumors he had heard of the torrid affair that had resulted in Annabelle’s marriage to Travis Greer, a former lieutenant in the British cavalry, confirmed bachelor and his brother Reese’s best friend.

Anna just laughed. “I admit to being a bit outrageous at times. Not recently, though.”

Rule smiled. “No, not since your husband had the courage to take you in hand.”

Anna grinned at the ridiculous remark. If anything, it was the other way round. Travis walked up just then, a well-built man with sandy-brown hair and small, gold-rimmed spectacles who was clearly in love with his wife. A respected journalist with the London Times, he wrote articles about whatever war the country might be fighting at the moment.

The empty sleeve of his coat bore testimony to the price he had paid when he was in the cavalry with Reese.

“Good to see you, Rule.” Travis glanced around the ballroom, the mirrored walls reflecting images of dozens of elegantly dressed men and women. “So which of these lovely ladies has managed to capture your attention? I heard you ended your…association with the beautiful and intriguing Lady St. Ives.”

Rule took a sip of his champagne. “News travels fast.”

“I assume you’re on the prowl again.”

He was indeed on the lookout for a new, more interesting mistress. He had grown tired of Evelyn Dreyer, Viscountess St. Ives, and several weeks back had ended the affair. It wasn’t Evie’s fault, he knew. For some time now, he had been feeling restless and bored, in search of something but not quite certain what it was.

Travis’s gaze shifted away from him and moved around the ballroom. “Or could it be that you are finally on the hunt for a wife?”

The sip of champagne Rule had taken nearly spewed from his mouth. He shook his head. “I’m definitely not looking for a wife. At least not at the moment.”

No one in London knew he was married. Not even his family. He would have to tell them, of course, and soon. Should have done it long ago. But telling them would make it real. It would force him to admit it was past time he did his duty, went to Boston and retrieved his wife.

The thought had him excusing himself and heading for the liquor table for something stronger than champagne.

Luke caught up with him there. “The crowd is beginning to thin. How about we head over to the club? Or we could go to Crockfords, do a little gambling.” Luke was nearly as tall as Rule, with dark brown hair and keen brown eyes. He had a scar through his right eyebrow that gave him a rakish, dangerous appearance women seemed to find attractive.

“Or if you are up to it, we could stop by Madame Lafon’s.” Luke grinned lasciviously at the pun, but Rule shook his head.

There was a time the elegant bordello had been one of his favorite ways to spend an evening. Lately, the notion of bedding one of the house’s beautiful harlots held little appeal.

“How about Crockfords?” he said. “I’ve been on a bit of a lucky streak lately. Perhaps it will hold.”

Luke smiled. “Crockfords it is.”

The one thing Rule wasn’t ready to do was go home. If he did, his conscience would nag him. He would think about the money Griff had left him when he died, the profitable investments from his lavish salary and the promise he had made. Though he had kept track of Violet through her aunt, Harriet Ardmore, he hadn’t been back to see the girl since the day they were wed.

He had planned to be there when her father died, but Griff had passed with very little warning, leaving Rule no time to make the monthlong crossing from London to Boston. He’d sent a letter to Violet, of course, expressing his condolences, then was careful to write her a short note at least every other month.

But it wasn’t the same as assuming his role of husband.

As he made his way out of the ballroom and stepped into the cool night air, he told himself it was time he kept his word. In the next week or two, he vowed, he would book a trip to Boston.

It was past time he went to collect his bride.

Rule ignored the sinking in the pit of his stomach.

Violet stepped off the clipper ship Courageous, grateful to once again be standing on dry land. At last, she was in London. She tightened her hold on the reticule hanging from her wrist and glanced at her surroundings. The docks buzzed with activity: stevedores unloading cargo, passengers disembarking from an endless line of ships along the quay, merchants hawking their wares to a herd of newly arrived, unsuspecting prey.

Gulls screeched overhead, their raucous cries mingled with the clatter and clank of ships’ rigging, sounds Violet had grown so accustomed to she barely noticed.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Her cousin, Caroline Lockhart, hurried along beside her, next to Mrs. Cummins, a lady of impeccable credentials who had been paid to act as their traveling companion.

“It is quite a bit different than I imagined,” Violet said, peering up at the skyline marked by tall church spires and a haphazard array of roofs dotted with chimney pots. “Everything looks older than I thought but that only seems to make it more charming.”

Though the area around the docks was certainly not the best. The buildings here were dilapidated and in need of repair, and aside from the travelers, most of the people on the streets were dressed in shabby clothes.

“I’ll hire us a carriage,” offered Mrs. Cummins, a bigboned, sturdy woman with iron-gray hair. They would be parting company soon, once Violet arrived at the residence belonging to her husband.

Husband. The word left a bad taste in her mouth. She hadn’t seen Rule Dewar since their wedding day three years ago.

Oh, he had sent an occasional note but clearly he had no intention of fulfilling his duties to his wife.

And Violet was extremely glad.

She had been so young when she had met him. Young and impressed with his extravagant good looks. And she’d been grieving for the father she would soon have to bury. Griff wanted her to marry and she would have done anything to please him—even wed a man she didn’t know.

“All right, girls, here we are.” Mrs. Cummins led them toward a ramshackle coach pulled by two tired-looking bay horses. The driver tipped his hat as he jumped down from the box and began hefting their steamer trunks into the boot at the rear of the vehicle.

Mrs. Cummins, very conscientious in her duties, watched the proceedings with a discerning eye. She had taken the job as companion in Aunt Harriet’s place since Aunt Harry turned green at the mere thought of four long weeks at sea.

The substitution was fine by Violet, who had been living mostly on her own since her father died. Desperate to fill her days with something more than sadness and grief, she had begun taking an interest in her father’s Boston munitions factory.

Growing up, she had spent a great deal of time there, learning about the business of making muskets and pistols, enjoying the hours with her father, playing the role of surrogate son.

“Come, girls,” Mrs. Cummins called out to them. “Let us get ourselves inside. This isn’t a good place to dawdle.”

The coachman held open the door and waited for each of them to climb into the worn leather interior. Violet settled herself in the seat, adjusted her conservative navy-blue traveling gown and tightened the strings of the matching bonnet beneath her chin, but her thoughts remained on her father.

In the beginning, he had been concerned that an interest in business might not be wise for a young lady, but soon it became apparent she was far more excited about making money than she was about playing the role of wealthy, pampered young lady.

Then, six months after Griff had died, Mr. Haskell, head of the Boston branch of the company, had suddenly taken ill and been forced to retire. Aunt Harry had nearly suffered an apoplexy when Violet told her she planned to take over Mr. Haskell’s duties, but Violet assured her that she would keep her role completely secret, and eventually her aunt had bent to Violet’s very strong will.

Mrs. Cummins’s worried voice drew her attention. “Dear me, what has happened to that address?” Her chubby hands dug frantically through her reticule. “I can’t seem to find the paper it was written on.”

“Number six Portman Square,” Violet told her, knowing the address by heart. It was printed at the top of Rule’s gold-embossed personal stationery, there on each of the very few letters she had received in the past three years.

Mrs. Cummins rapped on the roof of the carriage. “Driver, did you hear that?”

“Aye, madam. Number six Portman. ’Tis a bit o’ a ride, but I’ll get ye there safe and sound.”

“I hope it doesn’t take too long,” Caroline said with a weary sigh. “I am beyond ready to take off my shoes and put my feet up for a while.” Like Violet, Caroline was also nineteen. The two were alike in other ways, as well. Each was a bit too outspoken and unfashionably wont to do as she pleased, but Violet was better at disguising her nature than Caroline, who didn’t much care what other people thought of her.

She glanced outside the window, checking the angle of the sun. The afternoon was waning and all of them were tired. Echoing Caroline’s sentiments, Violet could hardly wait to reach their destination.

Her thoughts returned to the man she had wed and a tendril of anger slipped through her. Rule Dewar had the gall to marry her, then completely abandon her. He had given her father his word, had promised that he would provide for her, and though she had plenty of money and servants enough to staff a large part of Boston, it was hardly what her father had intended.

And it certainly wasn’t what Violet wanted. She wanted a husband who loved her, a man she could count on. She wanted a family and children. She had played the fool once for Rule Dewar. Not again.

A faint, bitter smile lifted her lips. Rule was about to get his comeuppance. He would retain whatever sum her father had left him, but he was about to lose his half interest in Griffin Manufacturing.

Violet couldn’t wait to see the look on his handsome face when she told him she was there to obtain an annulment.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually Violet and her party arrived at Rule’s London residence, a narrow, four-story brick structure with a gabled slate roof. It sat among a row of similar residences, all of them situated around a small park planted with bright spring flowers enclosed by an ornate wrought-iron fence. Clearly, it was a very exclusive neighborhood, befitting Rule’s station as the brother of a duke.

The thought stirred a trickle of irritation. How ridiculous it was to marry a man for his noble bloodlines. Why, Rule Dewar hadn’t even had the integrity to keep his word!

Not like Jeffrey, she thought, his handsome image popping into her head. Blond hair and warm brown eyes, a nice, sincere smile. Jeffrey Burnett was twenty-eight, nine years Violet’s senior, a man of some means she had met six months ago at a party given by a friend of Aunt Harriet’s. Jeffrey was an attorney who worked a great deal in the shipping business. Since Griffin shipped armaments around the world, they had something in common.

They had become friends of a sort, and eventually Violet had confided the truth of her hasty, ill-considered marriage. A few weeks later, Jeffrey had revealed his very strong attraction to her and his interest in making her his wife.

Of course all of that was moot at the moment.

First she had to obtain an annulment, which would make possible her second reason for coming on such a long journey.

She wanted to sell Griffin Manufacturing.

The driver jumped down and pulled open the carriage door, jarring her back to the present.

“We’re ’ere, ladies.”

Mrs. Cummins gave the man one of her imperious looks. “You’ll need to wait, sir, while I make certain this is the correct address. If so, I shall be needing your services again.”

“Aye, madam.”

Mrs. Cummins would be leaving Violet and Caroline there, though there was a chance they would be turned away. She had no idea what Rule Dewar would do when she appeared uninvited on his doorstep.

As they reached the top of the brick stairs, Violet stood anxiously next to Caroline while Mrs. Cummins knocked on the ornate front door. A wispy, gray-haired man, apparently the butler, pulled it open. He looked down his long beak of a nose as if he couldn’t imagine what three women would be doing on his employer’s front porch.

“May I help you?”

Violet spoke up—she was, after all, Rule’s wife. “I am Mrs. Rule Dewar. I am here to see my husband.”

The butler was frowning, his bushy white eyebrows drawn nearly together. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Then allow me to explain,” Mrs. Cummins said, thrusting her big bosom forward as she made her way closer to the door.

“This is Mrs. Dewar. She has crossed the ocean to see her husband. Now please go and find him and tell him that we are here.”

The man was shaking his head, opening and closing his mouth like a fish on dry land, when Violet stepped past him into the foyer.

“Where is he?” she asked firmly.

The butler looked helplessly around for assistance as the other two women followed her inside.

“I am afraid…I am sorry, but his lordship is not at home.”

His lordship? She thought his brother was the one with the title.

“When is he expected to return?” Caroline asked, speaking up for the first time.

“Sometime after supper. It could be quite late. Lord Rule rarely keeps me informed of his whereabouts.”

Violet shared a glance with Caroline, whose eyes had rounded at the reference to Rule as a lord. “My cousin and I will each need a room,” Violet said. “Please show us upstairs to our quarters, if you would.”

“B-but I can’t do that!”

Violet drilled him with a glare. “Why not?”

“Because I…because I…”

“Keep in mind that as his lordship’s wife, from now on you will also be answering to me. I hope you don’t mean for us to get off on a wrong foot.”

The old man’s pale eyes widened. For several long moments, he just stood there.

Caroline leaned toward her. “He doesn’t seem to know Dewar has a wife,” she whispered. This had not gone unnoticed by Violet.

“Which shall make an annulment all the easier,” she whispered back. “I am waiting,” Violet pressed.

The butler cleared his throat. “I’ll have Mrs. Digby, the housekeeper, show you both upstairs.”

Violet just smiled. She turned to their traveling companion. “You have done a very fine job, Mrs. Cummins. Caroline and I have both arrived safely, just as you promised. Which means your duties are ended.”

Reaching into her reticule, Violet pulled out the bank draft she’d had prepared to be given as final payment once they reached London.

The older woman looked uncertain. “I don’t know…You haven’t even spoken to your husband yet. And this man doesn’t seem to know who you are.”

Violet forced a smile. “My husband has always been a very private person. But you may rest assured he will be delighted to see me.” Now that was a bald-faced lie.

Mrs. Cummins reached out and tentatively took the bank draft Violet held out to her. “I could stay with you a few more days if you like.”

“No! I mean, that won’t be necessary. Caroline will be staying for the next several days until I am settled. Go and enjoy your family. That is the reason you traveled all the way to London, is it not?”

Mrs. Cummins smiled. “Well, if you’re certain…”

“I am quite certain. Thank you again for everything.”

“You have the address where I can be found, should you need me.”

Violet patted her reticule. “The information is right in here.”

“All right, then. I believe I shall do as you suggest. I am eager to see my mother and the rest of my family.” With a wave and a final farewell, Mrs. Cummins trundled out of the foyer. A footman was sent to bring in their luggage, and a few minutes later a woman appeared who looked very much like Mrs. Cummins—gray hair, big bosom, rounded hips.

“I’m Mrs. Digby, my lady. I’ll show you and your cousin upstairs to your rooms.”

My lady? It appeared marriage to the brother of a duke gave her a title, as well. Goodness, she had no idea. “Thank you.”

Their luggage was brought up to their rooms and as soon as Violet closed the door, a quick rap sounded and Caroline rushed in.

“My lady! I can hardly believe it. I thought Rule’s brother was the one with the title.”

“He is. I don’t know how it works. Rule never mentioned anything when he was in Boston.”

“Probably because Americans don’t use titles.”

“I suppose.”

“I wonder where he is.”

“I have no idea.” A faint smile touched her lips. “But he is certainly in for a surprise when he gets home.”

Caroline grinned. “Oh, my, yes—he certainly is.”

Two

Rule drained his brandy glass and set it on the table in front of him. He and Luke had made the social rounds, then ended the evening playing cards at White’s, his gentleman’s club. It was late and tomorrow he had work to do.

Rule slid back his chair. “I’m afraid I am out, gentlemen.” He shoved his cards into the center of the table. “Looks as though I wound up even—which, with Luke playing, I consider a win.”

Luke just laughed. “You’re headed home, then?”

“I’m done in. I’ll see you at the end of the week.” The Marchioness of Wyhurst was holding a ball in honor of her daughter Sabrina’s birthday. Rumor was the marchioness was determined to find the girl a husband, but so far the elegant blonde had refused every suitor who had dared knock at her door.

Rule blew out a breath, wishing he had sent his regrets, though he couldn’t quite say why. But Lady Sabrina had been a good friend to the Dewars, and it was, after all, the lady’s birthday.

He released a sigh, still uncertain why it was that staying at home was beginning to hold such a strange appeal.

Making his way to the door of the club, he called for his carriage and left the building. As he settled himself inside, he pulled the bow of his cravat, letting it drape around his neck, removed his collar and unbuttoned the top few buttons on his shirt. Leaning back against the squabs, he closed his eyes and drifted off for a bit.

The next sound he heard was the latch snapping open and the door swinging wide.

“We’re ’ere, guv’nor,” said the coachman, a burly man with a short brown beard who stepped back so that he might depart the carriage. “Good night, milord.”

He climbed to the street. “Good night, Bellows.” Leaving the coachman to his late-night duties, he headed for the door. Light spilled from a window in the drawing room and he thought that Hatfield must have accidentally left a lamp burning. The old man was getting quite old, but Rule wouldn’t fire him. Hat had been a loyal employee of the family for too many years.

He reached the door and was surprised when it swung open. Hatfield stood in the entry, gray hair standing on end, his eyes red from lack of sleep.

“What is it, Hat? I told you not to wait up.”

The butler straightened, looking more like his old self again. “You’ve a guest, my lord. Two of them, actually.”

Rule frowned. “A guest? I’m not expecting anyone. Who is it?”

“Your wife, sir.”

Silence fell in the entry. “My…my wife is here?”

Hat nodded, moving the strands of hair hanging over his wrinkled forehead. “Yes, my lord. She arrived from America late this afternoon with her cousin, a Miss Caroline Lockhart.”

“I see.” Of course he didn’t see at all and all he could think was, Bloody hell, what am I going to do now?

“Your wife, sir…she’s waiting for you.”

“Violet is…My wife is waiting for me? She is up at this hour?”

“Yes, sir, in the drawing room.”

His mind was spinning, trying to sort things out. Violet was in London, had crossed the Atlantic to reach him. He started walking toward the drawing room, wide awake now, no longer feeling the least effects of the alcohol he had consumed.

As he strode into the room, she sat bolt upright, her eyes bright and blinking, glanced around for an instant as if to recall where she was, straightened and shoved to her feet. She was smaller than he remembered was his first impression, petite but shapely. In truth, she was different in every way than he recalled.

Except for her glorious copper hair, the likes of which he had never seen.

He groped for something to say. “Violet. I cannot believe you are here.”

She gave him a chilling smile. “It took a while to reach London. But at last, here I am.”

He couldn’t seem to make himself move. “So you are.”

He did move then, closing the distance between them, reaching out to take both of her hands. She wore no gloves, he noticed, and realized that aside from the bridal kiss on her cheek, he had never actually touched her without the barrier of some sort of clothing.

“Welcome to London,” he said. “If I had known you were coming, I would have prepared a more proper greeting.”

Violet drew her hands from his and looked him over, head to foot. For the first time, it occurred to him that his cravat was undone and dangling round his neck; his collar was missing, shirt unbuttoned and his hair slightly mussed.

Violet, on the other hand, looked…well…

Violet Griffin Dewar was beautiful.

“It must have been quite an evening,” she said, those leaf-green eyes he remembered taking in his dishevel.

He flushed like a schoolboy. “Not really. I stopped by to see friends and wound up playing cards at my club.”

“You were gambling? I didn’t realize you were a gambler.”

His embarrassment faded, replaced by a hint of irritation. “I rarely gamble. I was simply passing time.”

“Yes, well, you certainly managed to do that.” She glanced up at the clock over the mantel, the hands pointing to the lateness of the hour, condemning him.

“I am certain you are tired,” she continued. “I shall leave you to find your bed. I just wanted you to know I was here and to say that I would like to speak to you first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, of course.” His gaze ran over her. In the yellow glow of the lamp on the table, he saw that in the past three years her features had softened, the sharp angles smoothed into feminine lines and curves. Her cheeks were as pale as cream and heightened by a touch of rose. A full bosom swelled above her tiny waist, her neck was slender and as graceful as her hands. Her lips were fuller than he recalled, beautifully curved and a lush shade of pink.