Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) Page 3

  The oak-paneled door to the office opened and Ian’s friend and secretary, Jonathan Marcus Gibbons, peered into the room.

  “Is it safe for me to come in now?” the young man asked and glanced at the broken glass and whiskey staining the floor. At lan’s brisk nod, he entered.

  Marcus closed the door softly behind him. He raked a hand through his curly blond hair. “Eversley delivered some disturbing news?”

  “If you call my forthcoming marriage disturbing news!”

  Marcus looked blank. “Marriage? Are you finally going to marry Lady Cynthia Connors? I. know she’s a spicy piece, Ian, but to marry a widow with two children…”

  “Marc, if I were going to wed Cynthia, do you think Thomas would tell me about it?”

  “I suppose not,” Marcus answered sheepishly. “Was it about your mother’s will? I know you told me a few weeks ago that Thomas was to arrive in Philadelphia to go over the details.”

  “Indeed he did. Here.” He picked up a small miniature portrait from his desk and tossed it to Marcus. “My bride, the Earl of Dunsmoor’s daughter.”

  Marcus examined the full, sad face gazing at him. “My God, Ian, she’s a child!”

  Ian shrugged and poured a new glass of whiskey. “Eversley claims it was painted some years ago. The girl is fourteen now.” Ian laughed shortly. “My mother must have been quite desperate to marry her off to me. She probably realized that no man would have the little wren unless there was an added inducement. I never understood until today just how much my mother must have hated me for remaining with Father when she divorced him.”

  “That’s cruel, Ian. I’m not certain why your mother thought you and this girl would make a good match, but I see delicate features in this child’s face, the promise of beauty. I predict you’ll fall madly in love with your bride.”

  “You always were a romantic, Marcus,” Ian teased.

  “I feel that it’s best to remain optimistic.” Marcus observed his friend and noted how the dark, curly head was bent in thought. “You are going to marry her, aren’t you? What is her name, by the way?”

  “Bethlyn, and yes, I will marry her. If I want to keep the earl’s, and especially Thomas Eversley’s, eager paws off Briston Shipping altogether, I must marry her. What a sordid mess! If Father were still alive and knew to what I must resort to keep the company intact, he’d be ill with rage. To think that my own mother would take away my birthright in such a way.” He glanced sadly at Marcus. “I understand why she must have hated me. I flatly refused to leave with her and her ‘precious earl’ when she divorced Father. But to abandon Molly, a child who was barely six at the time, for a spoiled jackanape like Nathaniel Talbot is beyond my realm of understanding.”

  “Love does strange things to people,” Marcus philosophically intoned. “Your mother must have loved this man very much to leave her children.”

  “Then I hope never to be struck by Cupid’s arrow.”

  “The way you’re going, my friend, you never will be. Half of the ladies in Philadelphia are eager to have you for a husband.”

  He raised an eyebrow in amused contempt. “Except for Cynthia. She knows how to please a man and doesn’t play games. She is the only woman I know who takes delight in being wealthy and independent and has no use for a man beyond mutual pleasure. The lady will never remarry, and if I weren’t in this situation now, I wouldn’t marry either. The prospect of such an alliance leaves a sour taste in my mouth. My father suffered untold heartache when my mother left him. She caused his ill health, his early death. I’ll never forgive her for hurting him. He loved the blasted woman until the moment he breathed his last. Her name was the last word he spoke.”

  Ian lifted his glass in a toast to Marcus and before downing it said, “No woman shall ever bring me to heel, because I won’t fall in love. Love brings only pain.”

  Marcus nodded. “If you say so, but I intend to one day fall desperately and madly in love.”

  “Fool.”

  “You’re the fool.”

  A merry laugh bubbled up in Ian’s throat. “Not any longer. Before I finish, the high and mighty Earl of Dunsmoor will appear foolish.”

  “Ian…”

  Ian caught the warning sound in Marcus’s voice and grinned, saying nothing further. He left the office and mounted his chestnut-colored roan which waited along the side of the gray stone building. Riding in the direction of home, his heart felt heavy.

  The city bustled with life, and he took a shortcut which led away from the more populated environs of Philadelphia. He didn’t want to chance meeting anyone he knew, and most certainly didn’t wish to make polite conversation, especially not this day. Riding hard along the banks of the Schuykill River, he failed to see the incredibly lush beauty of mid-summer, not the least bit interested in the beautiful women who trailed lazily along its banks, their colorful bonnets blocking the sun from soft, ivory skin.

  At the moment all he wanted to do was to arrive at Edgecomb and lock himself away. However, he knew he couldn’t. He’d never been one to run away from anything in his life. His father, Matthew Briston, had always told him he was a fighter. That when the deck was stacked against him he’d somehow turn out a winner. Ian had endeavored to please his father and his mother when he was young. To his youthful eyes his father was the most intelligent and kindly man, his mother was astonishingly beautiful. He remembered how she’d tuck him in at night when he was a child and plant a loving kiss on his forehead, tell him what a big boy he was and how much she loved him.

  Loved him! Her love had turned out to be as thin as gossamer. She’d gone to England to visit a relative and fallen in love with an uppity earl. Never mind that she and the man were both married to other people. Their lust for each other became the driving force in their lives.

  Ian recalled that until the day she’d sailed for England, his mother had been a different sort of woman, or he had thought her to be a faithful, loving wife. Her actions always bespoke of love for her husband. To prove her devotion to Matthew she’d turned over the running of the shipping company she’d inherited from her father to him when they married, even insisting the name be changed to Briston Shipping. Though Matthew ran the company, and its sister company in England, Jessica held title to it. As Ian grew older he wondered why she never relinquished control to Matthew since he was the driving force behind it and he felt that his father must feel belittled at times to not own the company he ran.

  However, his father appeared happy with things as they were, and when Jessica sailed to England to visit her old aunt, and to see to the British end of the company, Matthew insisted she go alone. He claimed pressing duties and couldn’t break away.

  If only he’d gone, Ian found himself thinking for the ten thousandth time in the last eight years. Perhaps then his mother wouldn’t have been an easy target for a lecherous nobleman if his father had been by her side. He remembered the day she arrived home with her earl. Ian and Molly had come home from a friend’s house, and there the man had sat in the parlor.

  He’d never forget the Earl of Dunsmoor rising to his feet, of the way he’d peered down at them, his eyes cold and hard as if they were vermin and he’d delight in brushing them away. His mother came forward to kiss them. “This is a very special friend of mine,” she’d said with love in her eyes as she took the earl’s hand in hers. Ian discovered sooner than Molly how special this friend was to his mother. Within a month, she begged the fifteen-year-old Ian to leave with her and come to England, that a great fortune and life with Briston Shipping awaited him there. He’d adamantly refused, knowing he hurt her. He expected she’d take Molly, but she didn’t, perhaps thinking Molly would be better off with her brother and father. In that regard, his mother was correct. Ian and his father, when he was alive, doted on Molly, spoiling her outrageously. He sincerely doubted the earl would have wanted two strange children underfoot.

  Sometimes Ian forgot he ever had a mother, and that was fine with him. He completed his formal edu
cation in Italy before returning home to work in the office with his father. Though his parents had divorced, Jessica wished Matthew to still run the colonial end of the company, and because he loved her and still hoped she’d come back to him, he agreed. Such love has no man, Ian thought bitterly. There were moments over the years when Ian wondered why his father never fought for Jessica, why he docilely allowed her to leave and didn’t protest the divorce. Had his father been a basically weak, cuckolded man, a man who pretended to adore his wife only for the prosperous company she’d inherited? Was his father, after all, no better than the earl himself? He hated to think so.

  When Matthew died five years ago, the doctors said he’d succumbed to heart disease. More like a broken heart, Ian decided. Because of his father’s experience, Ian vowed never to fall in love and appear foolish, never to become the discarded object of a woman’s whimsy. Never. If anyone would do the discarding, it would be him. He rubbed his chin in thought. He’d do anything to cause the earl as much humiliation as Matthew suffered, to make up for Molly’s pain. Growing up without a mother wasn’t easy for his sister. Lady Bethlyn Talbot had the privilege of a mother’s love these last years, his own mother’s love to be exact — something which had been denied him and his sister.

  Earlier, he’d hinted to Eversley and Marcus at a way to make the earl appear foolish, not certain at this time how he intended to cause such discomfort. However, as he raced through verdant pastureland towards home a plan formed in his mind.

  What better way to wreak vengeance on the hateful man than through his own daughter? He knew he must marry the girl to keep his company. In truth he didn’t want to hurt her, but the years of pain had taken their toll upon him, hardening his heart until all he thought of at that moment was the joy he’d receive to see the earl’s shocked and surprised face on the day of the wedding ceremony.

  A dry, coarse laugh reverberated across the countryside, and Ian realized the sound had come from himself. He’d do what had to be done to assuage his own pain, his sister’s, and the betrayal of his father by his unfaithful mother.

  His future depended upon it.

  2

  “He’s here, milady, and waiting in the chapel for you. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I’ll tell you that he’s taller than an oak.”

  Tessie Edmonds, housekeeper at Woodsley, bustled around the opulently appointed bedchambers, known as the Queen of Scot’s Bedroom because once Mary Queen of Scots had stayed the night in the very bed on which Bethlyn now was seated. The large testered bed rose nearly to the ceiling, and the half-dome at the top was patterned in the same print as the rose, green, and white draperies which surrounded the bed and hung on the two windows. The room was quite feminine and fit for a bride. At that moment, Bethlyn felt less than feminine as she sat in a violet silk gown, trimmed in blue velvet bows at the elbow length sleeves and the border of the full skirt. She felt ill, unbearably sick to her stomach.

  With a face the shade of pea green, she glanced up at Tessie and Mavis, who helped her into a pair of violet satin slippers. “I can’t go through with it. I’m afraid I’ll disgrace myself by becoming quite ill during the ceremony.” She took a deep breath to still the nausea which roiled in her stomach like a simmering stewpot. “How could my father have done this to me? How?”

  “Now, Bethlyn,” Mavis spoke calmly, referring to her without benefit of title because the earl wasn’t there to chastise his daughter for allowing a lowly lady’s maid such familiarity. “Before we left Hallsands you were quite happy to be marrying. You’ve only got a case of wedding jitters. You’ll be fine once the ceremony is over.”

  “Mavis is right,” Tessie interjected. “All brides get scared. ‘Tis a natural occurrence. By tomorrow, you’ll be fit and chipper.” She stroked Bethlyn’s long hair, the sides held up by two ruby combs.

  Bethlyn shook her head and held on to the bedpost for support. She felt weak suddenly. In fact, she’d felt slightly ill for the last two days, having little appetite for food. Her body ached, and right now a horrible pounding started at her temples and slithered to the top of her skull. She successfully swallowed down the sensation that she had to retch, grateful that little was in her stomach. The early November morning held a hint of frost in the air, and the large fireplace in the bedroom now crackled and sizzled, but Bethlyn felt chilly, unbearably cold, and wondered why Tessie’s upper lip gleamed with perspiration.

  “I don’t know this man. I’ve never laid eyes upon him. Father expects me to marry him within minutes, to sail away to America. I … I can’t.”

  Bethlyn’s voice sounded low and weak, causing Mavis to glance at her curiously. She seemed to be going to ask her a question when a loud impatient tap was heard on the door. Tessie answered and the Earl of Dunsmoor stood in the doorway, his dark eyes trained on his daughter as she leaned against the bedpost. He frowned and dismissed the two women.

  With hands folded behind his back, Nathaniel Talbot entered his daughter’s room. At his appearance, Bethlyn stood on slightly unsteady feet. Her stomach turned over at the supreme look of annoyance he shot her. Through his displeasure she envisioned the handsome man he’d been years ago. However, a life of ease and indolence, coupled with much alcohol and rich food, now gave him a rather bloated appearance. His hair, which had once been raven black, gleamed brightly with silver strands.

  Bethlyn recalled her last meeting with her father, which had taken place only two weeks ago in this very room. He’d surveyed her in much the same fashion then, too. In fact, she wondered if he donned a mask each time he saw her. His facade always contained a hint of scorn, of disapproval, of a dislike he didn’t bother to conceal. He’d inquired as to her health, and before she could even reply, he told her that a dressmaker had been engaged to outfit her in the most fashionable ladies’ attire. He hoped all was to her liking, and then he disappeared. This was the first time she’d seen him since that afternoon, and more than anything she wished to please him, to make up for the fact that she felt ill, to somehow believe that if she put a smile on her face, he’d forget he hated her.

  Before Bethlyn could utter a word, her father said, “You look ungodly wretched!”

  The smile withered and died before it even appeared. “I’m sorry, Father. This is the best that could be done for me.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you ill?”

  He asked the question with such disdain that Bethlyn felt unable to admit to her own ill health. “No, sir. I am only nervous.” Somehow she managed to smile, though his comment had wounded her deeply.

  “The nervousness will pass. I want this wedding to be over with soon. Your bridegroom is eager to set sail for America. His ship leaves London this evening.”

  Bethlyn hadn’t known this, and for a moment the room whirled. “I … I … I…”

  “What is it? Don’t stammer, girl. You remind me of your mother when you do.”

  She swallowed. “I won’t, I mean, we won’t spend the night here at Woodsley?”

  “No.”

  Tears misted her eyes. She’d hoped to stay the night in this bed, to at least have some feeling of security when her bridegroom possessed her. In fact she didn’t have a clear idea of what “possessed” meant, but Tessie had told her that would happen on her wedding night and she must endure her husband’s possession. Bethlyn recalled that Mavis’s cheeks had flared at the term, and she’d asked her if she knew what Tessie meant. Mavis said she had only a vague idea and conveyed to Bethlyn in more concrete language what Tessie had tried to tell her. Bethlyn had been shocked, not able to believe a man would do that to a woman. To her. However, after much thought on the subject, Bethlyn decided that if that’s what it took to make a man love her, then she’d willingly allow her husband to possess her. However, now seeing the way her father’s eyes raked her in distaste, she was more nervous that Ian Briston might see her in the same way and wouldn’t wish to bed her at all.

  “Is there a problem with the plan?” her father asked wi
th a bit of challenge in his voice, almost as if he’d dangled a piece of bait at her and expected her to fight for it.

  “That is fine, sir,” she mumbled.

  Talbot sniffed the air. “Certainly you’d say that. You’re quite like your mother.” He breathed deeply. “Everyone is assembled in the drawing room, but I can’t allow you to marry with your face that pitiful shade of green. I swear you look ill, but there’s no delaying the ceremony now. Have that maid of yours cover your face with a veil, anything to dispel that tragic look. I’ll wait by the stairs for you, and do hurry.”

  “Father!” she cried, wanting to cling to him though he hated her, to ask him to change his mind about the wedding, to do the impossible and love her.

  “Yes.”

  So curt, so cold he looked that she said instead, “I never did express my sympathy to you over your wife’s passing. I truly am sorry.”

  For just a brief moment, the guarded and disdainful expression melted. She detected a softness, almost as if he might give in to the human emotion of grief. He didn’t. Nathaniel lifted his shoulders high and inclined his head.

  “Thank you for your sympathies. Have your maid cover your face and come downstairs. I want the ceremony finished.”

  Bethlyn nodded dumbly as his broad shoulders filled the doorway and then he was gone. A sob rose in her throat and she forced it down, knowing that crying would grant her little relief from the burden of her father’s disregard for her. Her dream of ever possessing her father’s love truly died at that moment. She realized he’d never care for her, coming slowly to the knowledge that it wasn’t she he disliked but the memory of her mother whenever he gazed upon her face.