Epilogue
Regular newspaper notices of the wedding were as discreet and formal as one might expect, but a popular woman’s magazine ran a longer story with the details their readers loved. Their society reporter wrote:
The nuptials of Sir Damian Mackenzie and Lady Kiri Lawford were celebrated at St. George’s, Hanover Square, followed by a sumptuous wedding breakfast at the home of the bride’s brother, the seventh Duke of Ashton. In an unconventional touch, the bride was given away both by her stepfather, General John Stillwell, the Hero of Hind, and her mother, Princess Lakshmi Lawford Stillwell, the dowager Duchess of Ashton.
Standing up with the happy couple were the bride’s sister, Miss Lucia Stillwell, and the groom’s brother, Major Lord Masterson. His lordship was most dashing in his scarlet regimentals and with his arm in a sling due to injuries suffered on the Peninsula in Noble Service to His Country.
The elderly widow who supplemented her income by writing such pieces paused to nibble on the end of her pencil. Since churches were places of public worship, she was free to attend the weddings, christenings, and funerals of the beau monde. With her gift for friendly chat, she could usually glean enough material from those in attendance to make it appear that she was an invited guest.
In this case, she wasn’t sure if it was a war wound that Lord Masterson was suffering from. For all she knew, he might have fallen off his horse when drunk. But being wounded in service to his country sounded so much better.
She made a note to learn the name of his regiment later. Some details could be invented with no harm, but one must be accurate about military matters.
She wondered whether she should refer to the fact that the groom’s birth had been . . . irregular. She found it touching that the half brothers were obviously close, but her editor wouldn’t like any references to bastardy.
Best not to discuss the matter of Sir Damian’s reported death, either. She had no idea what the true story was, but his claim that he’d woken up at St. Bart’s some weeks after a head injury sounded like pure gammon to her.
The Duchess of Ashton, a charming, gracious, and
enceinte
young woman with not a trace of haughtiness, had provided several good nuggets of information. The widow bent to her work again, writing very small because paper was expensive.
The happy couple met because Sir Damian attended the Westerfield Academy with the bride’s brother, the Duke of Ashton. Numerous other distinguished graduates of the school were present. The founder and headmistress, Lady Agnes Westerfield, traveled up from Kent as an honored guest.
The widow worked on the principle that one could never mention titles too often. In her final draft, she would reduce most of the titles to initials for discretion’s sake, but in this version, she preferred to write them out. Best not to reveal that the Westerfield Academy had been founded for boys of “good birth and bad behavior.” That would raise far too many questions in her readers’ minds.
Other guests included Lord Kirkland; Major Alexander Randall, heir to the Earl of Daventry, and his lovely bride, Lady Julia Randall; the Honorable Charles Clarke-Townsend and his wife and daughter; and the Honorable Robert Carmichael.
Should she mention the veiled young guest who’d looked remarkably like Princess Charlotte Augusta? Tempting, very tempting, but the princess had obviously been attending in a purely private capacity. It wasn’t wise to mention royalty when they thought they were being incognito.
Now for the part the widow liked best, which was describing the bride and groom.
The tall and splendidly handsome Sir Damian is a noted leader of fashion, and his military bearing gives evidence of his own Peninsular service.
Oh, a fine and dashing rogue he was, too! He reminded the widow of her own dear husband. When the officiating cleric had asked if anyone knew any reason the marriage should not take place, she’d been tempted to stand up and object on the grounds that she wanted him for herself. She might have done so if she had been thirty years younger. Not that Sir Damian would look at anyone other than the bride he so clearly adored, and that was as it should be.
In a tribute to her mother’s royal Hindoo blood, the demure and beautiful bride wore a magnificent scarlet silk sari with stunning borders of intricate golden embroidery. Her gold necklaces, earrings, and myriad bangle bracelets were also of Hindoo origin.
The widow had been a little shocked to see what looked like intricate brown tattoos on the bride’s slim hands and arms, but the Duchess of Ashton had explained that the designs were temporary and part of Indian wedding tradition.
Nor was the widow convinced of the bride’s demureness. She’d been close enough to the altar to hear General Stillwell—such a fine-looking man, even at his age!—tell Sir Damian that he hoped her husband would do a better job of controlling Lady Kiri than her father had. Sir Damian had just laughed and taken firm hold of his bride’s hand.
The widow suspected that there hadn’t been any surprises on the newlyweds’ wedding night. When they’d come laughing down the aisle as man and wife, the widow had the distinct impression that the couple had sampled the goods and were well pleased with what they’d found. Not that she was one to judge—she and her future husband had anticipated their wedding vows with enthusiasm and as much frequency as they’d been able to manage.
The happy couple will be spending the Christmas holidays with family and friends at the Duke of Ashton’s seat, Ralston Abbey, in Wiltshire. In future they will reside in London and Wiltshire. The union of Sir Damian and Lady Kiri was a splendid joining of East and West that all may rejoice in.
Pleased with her efforts, the widow set down her pencil with a smile. She knew happily ever after when she saw it.
Did you miss the first two books in the Lost Lords series? It starts with LOVING A LOST LORD . . .
In the first of a dazzling series, Mary Jo Putney introduces the Lost Lords—maverick childhood friends with a flair for defying convention. Each is about to discover the woman who is his perfect match—but perfection doesn’t come easily, even for the noble Duke of Ashton.
Battered by the sea, Adam remembers nothing of his past, his ducal rank, nor of the shipwreck that almost claimed his life. However, he’s delighted to hear that the golden-haired vision tending his wounds is his wife. Mariah’s name and face may not be familiar, but her touch, her warmth, feel deliciously right.
When Mariah Clarke prayed for a way to deter a bullying suitor, she didn’t imagine she’d find the answer washed ashore on a desolate beach. Convincing Adam that he is her husband is surprisingly easy. Resisting the temptation to act his wife, in every way, will prove anything but. And now a passion begun in fantasy has become dangerously real—and completely irresistible.
After an eternity of cold water, numbness, and despair, he was dragged ashore. Emerging from the water pulled him from the deathlike trance that had allowed him to survive in the cold water for so long. Dimly he remembered stumbling along with help, sliding into blackness, and then awaking to—perfection.
The woman bending over him seemed more dream than reality, yet the warmth radiating from her was palpable. Her eyes were warm brown and a cloud of golden hair floated around her perfect oval face. She shimmered in the lamp-light. Wondering if he’d drowned and gone to some other realm, he raised an unsteady hand to stroke those finely spun strands. They were gossamer silk against his fingers.
“You’re safe now.” She pulled her long hair back and tied the shining mass in a loose knot at her nape. Her every movement was grace. “Do you speak English?”
He had to think to answer her question. English. Language. Understanding. He licked his dry lips and whispered, “Y . . . yes.”
“Good. That will make things easier.” She slid an arm under his shoulders and raised him enough to drink. He swallowed thirstily, thinking it strange how much he craved water since it had almost killed him. And it was humiliating that he was so weak that he couldn’t even drink without help.
When he’d had enough, she took the glass away and gently laid him down again. She wore a night robe, and though it covered her thoroughly, her dishabille was deliciously tantalizing. “Such green eyes you have,” she observed. “They are striking with your dark complexion.”
His eyes were green and the rest of him, dark? He shifted his gaze to his right hand and examined it. The skin was medium tan, a half dozen shades darker than her ivory complexion. He realized that he had no idea what he looked like, beyond tan and bruised. Or what he ought to look like.
She continued, “Can you tell me your name?”
He searched his mind and came up with—nothing. No name, no place, no past, just as he had no sense of his own body. That had to be
wrong
. Panic surged through him, more terrifying than the cold sea that had nearly drowned him. He was nothing, nobody, torn from his past and thrust into an unknown present. The horror of that echoed through every fiber of his being. Struggling to master his fear, he choked out, “I . . . I don’t know.”
Seeing his fear, she caught his cold hand between her warm palms. “You’ve endured a considerable ordeal. After you rest and recover, you will surely remember.” She frowned uncertainly. “Can you have forgotten that I’m your wife, Mariah Clarke?”
“My . . . my
wife
?” He stared, incredulous. How could he possibly forget being wed to a woman like this? But even though he didn’t remember their marriage, his fears diminished as he compulsively clenched her hand. “Then . . . I am a most fortunate man.”
She smiled warmly. “Rest while I go for tea and broth. I’ve sent for someone who will know how to treat that blow to your head. With luck, she’ll be here soon. By tomorrow, you will likely remember everything about yourself.”
He raised unsteady fingers to the ragged gash that ran down the left side of his skull. He had so many aches and bruises that he hadn’t noticed any in particular, but now that she mentioned it, his head throbbed like the very devil. “Tea would be . . . welcome.”
“I’ll only be gone a few minutes,” she promised as she whisked away.
He stared at the ceiling after she left. He had a
wife
. He hated that he remembered nothing about that vision of loveliness who had saved his life, nor about being married. It was easy to imagine kissing her, and a good deal more. But of actual memories he had none. It seemed damned unfair.
He spent time during her absence searching his mind and memory and trying not to knot the sheets with nervous fingers. He recognized objects around him. Bed. Blanket. Fire. Pinkness in the sky outside. That would be . . . dawn. Oddly, a second set of words shadowed the first.
Palang
.
Kambal
.
Aag
. He was quite sure the words meant the same as the English ones that came to mind, so he probably knew a different language, though he had no idea what it might be.
But he had no personal memories. Again he fought the rising fear. The emotion was a screaming, vulnerable awareness that he was alone and so helpless that he didn’t even know what might threaten him.
Strangely, deep inside he sensed that this was not the first time he had been torn away from himself. Perhaps that was why his fear was so great. But he couldn’t remember anything about that other situation, whatever it might be.
He had survived that earlier loss. This time he had a wife who told him he was safe. Surely she would look out for him until he was strong enough to look out for her.
For now, he remembered the most basic fact of all: that he was male and Mariah Clarke was female.
. . . and continues with NEVER LESS THAN A LADY.
New York Times
bestselling author Mary Jo Putney continues her stunning Lost Lords series with this stirring, sensual story of a rebellious nobleman drawn to a lovely widow with a shocking past.
As the sole remaining heir to the Earl of Daventry, Alexander Randall knows his duty: find a wife and sire a son of his own. The perfect bride for a man in his position would be a biddable young girl of good breeding. But the woman who haunts his imagination is Julia Bancroft—a village midwife with a dark secret that thrusts her into Randall’s protection.
Within the space of a day, Julia has been abducted by her first husband’s cronies, rescued, and proposed to by a man she scarcely knows. Stranger still is her urge to say yes. A union with Alexander Randall could benefit them both, but Julia doubts she can ever trust her heart again, or the fervent desire Randall ignites. Yet perhaps only a Lost Lord can show a woman like Julia everything a true marriage can be.
“Mrs. Bancroft?” a light female voice called as the bells on the cottage door rang to indicate a visitor. “It’s me, Ellie Flynn.”
“Good afternoon, Ellie.” Julia moved from the kitchen into her examining room, taking the young woman’s toddler into her arms. “How is Master Alfred feeling today?”
“Much better, Mrs. Bancroft.” The woman smiled fondly at her redheaded son, who was reaching for Julia’s cat. “That horehound and honey tea you gave me helped his cough right smartly.”
“The Duchess of Ashton’s cough remedy.” Julia looked the little boy over. He grinned back at her. “The name alone is halfway to being a cure.”
The tea was a recipe she’d learned from her friend Mariah, who hadn’t been a duchess then. Mariah had been raised by a grandmother who was a village healer not unlike Julia, but more knowledgeable about herbs. Julia had learned a few simple remedies from the midwife who had trained her, but Mariah knew many more, and her recipes had been a good addition to Julia’s store of treatments.
She handed the little boy back to his mother. “He’s flourishing. You’re doing a fine job raising him, Ellie.”
“I couldn’t have done it without your help. When he was born, I hardly knew which end was which!” Ellie, also redheaded and no more than nineteen, shyly offered a worn canvas bag. “I’ve some nice fresh eggs for you, if you’d like them.”
“Lovely! I’ve been wanting an egg for my tea.” Julia accepted the bag and moved to the kitchen of her cottage, removing the eggs from their straw packing so she could return the bag. She never turned away a mother or child in need, so while many of her patients couldn’t afford to pay in cash, Julia and her household ate well.
After Mrs. Flynn and her little boy left, Julia sat at her desk and wrote notes about patients she’d seen that day. Whiskers, her tabby cat, snoozed beside her. After finishing her notes, Julia sat back and petted the cat as she surveyed her kingdom.
Rose Cottage had two reception rooms at the front of the house. She used this one as an office for treating patients and storing remedies. The other front chamber was her sitting room. Kitchen, pantry, and a bedroom ran across the back of the cottage. A slant-roofed but spacious second bedroom was up the narrow stairs.
Behind the cottage was a stable for her placid pony, and a garden that produced herbs and vegetables. The flowers in front of the cottage were there simply because she believed that everyone needed flowers.
Rose Cottage was not what she’d been raised to live in, but that life had turned out very badly. This life was so much better. She had her own home, friends, and she provided a vital service for this remote community. With no physicians nearby, she had become more than a midwife. She set bones and treated wounds and minor illnesses.
Some claimed she was better than the doctors in Carlisle. Certainly she was cheaper.
Though her trip to London several months earlier as Mariah’s chaperone had left her restless, she was mostly content in Hartley. She would never have a child of her own, but she had many children in her life, as well as the respect of the community. She took pride in the fact that she’d built this life for herself with her own hard work.
The front door opened and a young woman bustled in, a toddler on one hip and a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Julia smiled at the other two members of her household. “You’re back early, Jenny. How are Mrs. Wolf and Annie?”
Jenny Watson beamed. “Happy and healthy. Since I delivered Annie myself, whenever I see her I’m as proud as if I’d invented babies.”
Julia laughed. “I know the feeling. Helping a baby into the world is a joy.”
Jenny reached into her bag. “Mr. Wolf sent along a nice bit of bacon.”
“That will go well with Ellie Flynn’s eggs.”
“I’ll fix us our tea then.” Jenny headed into the kitchen and set her daughter in a cradle by the hearth. Molly, fourteen months old, yawned hugely and curled up for a nap.
Julia watched the child fondly. Jenny was not the first desperate pregnant girl who had shown up on Julia’s doorstep, but she was the only one to become part of the household. Jenny had married a man against her family’s wishes. Her family had turned their backs when he abandoned her, saying that she’d made her bed and must lie in it.
Near starvation, Jenny had offered to work as Julia’s servant for no wages, only food and a roof over her head. The girl had proved to be clever and a hard worker, and after Molly’s birth, she became Julia’s apprentice. She was well on her way to becoming a fine midwife, and she and her child had become Julia’s family.
Jenny had just called, “Our tea is ready!” when the string of bells that hung on the front door jangled.
Julia made a face. “I wish I had a shilling for every time I’ve been interrupted during a meal!”
She stood—then froze with horror at the sight of the three men who entered her home. Two were strangers, but the burly, scar-faced leader, was familiar. Joseph Crockett, the vilest man she’d ever known, had found her.
“Well, well, well. So Lady Julia really is alive,” he said menacingly as he pulled a glittering knife from a sheath under his coat. “That can be fixed.”
Whiskers hissed and dashed into the kitchen while Julia backed away, numb with panic.
After years of quiet hiding, she was a dead woman.