The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories (22 page)

Blossom watched Halston retreat as though a pack of hellhounds were hard upon his boots. When the door closed firmly behind him, her mother and father sat back in their chairs, relaxed and reposed, and smiling at each other.

“Darling Jane, you are the most cunning of women,” her father drawled as he reached for a biscuit. “How I admire you, dearest.”

“I had a wonderfully gifted tutor,” her mother said with a knowing smile.

“I thought he'd choke on his tongue.” Her father laughed. “Poor fellow, he was ambushed.”

“Nonsense,” her mother scoffed. “It was only a little test of his character. And he did surprisingly well, under the circumstances. Perhaps he was a little…off center, but I have not given up all hope yet that he might come up to scratch.”

“Mama,” Blossom asked, suspicion in her voice, “did you and Papa plan for me to come into this room wearing my apron?”

“Of course, child,” her mother replied. Her fair complexion was positively beaming, and her green eyes sparkling with mischief behind her spectacles. “You have to be absolutely certain what sort of man you're getting involved with. While I will agree, Lord Halston is very handsome and his manners impeccable, it is not those two virtues you are marrying. It is the man himself.”

“And you knew what sort of man Papa was, then?”

Her mother's gaze softened; mischief was replaced with a deep and abiding love. “Yes,” she whispered, and Blossom saw her flush as the afternoon sun shone upon her mother's red hair, which was streaked at the sides with gray. “I knew exactly what sort of man your father was. The very sort worth fighting for. And that, my dear, is the kind of man you want. The sort who will walk through fire to have you. Who will give you everything you want—not baubles and material things,” she clarified, “but the things that mean something. Objects that money cannot buy. That is the sort of man that makes a husband, Blossom. One who loves you for you. Not for what you come from.”

“Your mother is right. No man who was less than that would ever be worthy of you. And let me tell you, no man is truly content with a wife who is a copy of every
other man's wife. A man wants his own—teeth, claws and all.”

“Thank you, both. Not many women my age could boast of having such understanding parents.”

“I should say not. You've been positively ruined by your indulgent father and spoiling mother.”

“Papa.” She laughed as he teased her. She kissed him on the cheek, and then her mother. “Now, then, may I be excused?”

“Naturally,” her father said. “But do have a care with poor old Halston. His unfortunate showing at tea aside, I quite like the fellow.”

“I shall keep that in mind, Papa.” Quickly she left the salon. She needed to think, and the best thinking spots were outside by the lake. Before closing the door, she heard her mother's quiet whisper.

“Do you think we've destroyed all hope for her?”

“No, my love. He is truly smitten by her, I think. If he wants her bad enough, he'll find her paint-stained fingers charming, and the fact she fly-fishes better than her brother an intriguing notion.”

“I want her happiness, Matthew, that is all.”

“As do I. But what you forget, my love, is that she is very much like us. She has your teeth, and my claws. Blossom will stay true to herself. She will not allow a man to railroad her into marriage. On that, I can promise you.”

“L
ADY
B
LOSSOM, A LETTER
for you.”

Blossom reached for the missive the butler was holding out to her. “Thank you, I think I shall read it during my walk. I'll be going to the Temple and back, Thompson, if my parents should happen to ask after me.”

“Very good. Ah, I see you have your bonnet. The sun is very hot today, miss.”

“Thank you, Thompson. I shall take every care.”

Stepping outside, Blossom heard the door close behind her. Ensuring that no one was around, she raised the hem of her skirt and petticoats and ran down the gravel drive, to the side path that led to the garden. She would walk to the lake, and linger on the bridge for a few moments. There she would find a measure of peace and tranquility, away from her eager suitors and zealous penniless men searching for an heiress.

In these past few months, she had learned what it was like to be hunted and desired for nothing more than her dowry. It had been a frightening and yet enlightening lesson. Her father had taught her all the tricks that a desperate man might employ to snag himself an heiress. Seduction being the first. As a consequence of those lessons, Blossom strived to never be alone with a man—no matter who he was or how innocent the setting. But she was safe here at the lake. The ladies were upstairs, napping and preparing for the dinner and dance that evening. The gentlemen were sipping port and playing billiards, or lounging in the
library, reading the papers. No, she would not encounter anyone out here, except perhaps a few swans.

Pausing, Blossom closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, enjoying the warm sunlight that crept across her face. The sun was hot, but she pulled the strings loose on her bonnet, anyway. Pulling the bonnet off her head, she was aware that a lock of her hair had come loose and was dangling down her back. With a mischievous smile, she tossed the bonnet aside and, letter in hand, she made her way to the bridge.

Strolling leisurely, she took in the magnificent grounds, and stopped in the middle of the bridge to gaze down upon the dark water. Two swans, one white and one black, swam lazily beneath and she turned to the other side in time to watch them swim from out beneath the arched stone. Swans were everpresent here, a symbol of devotion and love. One always black, the other white. She had often asked her parents about the custom, but they just smiled and sent each other private glances. It was then that Blossom knew the swans somehow symbolized her parents' union.

It was romantic. Passionate. And one day she wanted something similar to share with her husband.

Strolling along, Blossom followed the winding paths that were edged with trees and bushes and flowering perennials while breaking the red wax seal of the Earl of Wallingford, and opened the missive from her brother.

Smiling, Blossom continued her walk and thought of her brother, his black hair and dark eyes—how they flashed when he was riled. She could just imagine the scene that would have ensued if she had encouraged her brother's anger at Samuel.

Because he was in love, she thought. One day, even Edward would succumb to the emotion. One day, her brother would curb his reckless ways and discover what it was to heed the urges of one's heart. A heart could lead anywhere, and Samuel had simply followed his. She did not resent him, but admired him for it. What courage it took to be true to oneself.

Ah, Edward. As far as siblings went, Edward was exceptional. They were six years apart, she the younger. He had always included her, dragging her off to the lake for fishing or catching tadpoles. How she had enjoyed those times, when anything was possible.

Folding her letter, she pressed her lips to the seal, recalling those bygone days when the real world had never intruded upon them, and the rules of society were all abandoned.

But she had grown up, and was now faced with the knowledge that the world for her was not as it was for her brother. Men were afforded far more privilege, while women labored under centuries-old stigmas and occupations. Daughters of dukes did not don britches and boots and scamper into the lake, fishing. They sat on the bank, their skirts protected from the grass, their complexions shielded from the sun, and pretended to watch the men at their sport, while secretly envying them their freedom.

She knew all too well that would be her fate tomorrow morning when she met Lord Halston for fishing. He would fuss over her, demanding the right to bait her own hook, and no doubt cast her line, as well. He would smother and coddle her so much that she would become exasperated and would seek the bank to be rid of him. She would then sit there, miserable, and he smug with himself, feeling as though he could manage her.

Such was a woman's lot in life.

Lamenting that fact, Blossom paused and looked around her surroundings, amazed to discover that she had unconsciously strolled to the very same spot that
she had so fondly been ruminating about. Before her, in all its boyhood glory, stood the wooden fort. She hadn't come by it in years, but Papa had it kept clean and in good repair for when Aunt Sarah visited with her husband, Simon, and their three children—as well as for any future grandchildren that might come along.

Reaching for the handle, she pulled the door open and stepped inside. It was dark, a bit dingy, but it smelled the way she always remembered, woodsy, a bit musky and…spicy?

No, it couldn't be. Whirling around, she found the source of that spicy scent. It was cologne, and it belonged to a man she hadn't seen in almost a year.

“Hello, Blossom.”

“Jase!”

The sound was a strangled noise from her throat. Good Lord, what was he doing here?

“It hasn't changed much, has it?” he asked as he looked up at the ceiling and the loft where they all had once sat, the remnants of a picnic lunch strewn around them. His gaze met hers, and a smile suddenly broke free. “I do believe the last time I was here, we were playing highwayman, and you were the rich heiress that was dragged from her carriage, and I was the dastardly highwayman—although, I do like to think I played him rather dashingly.”

She smiled at the memory while studying him. “You bound my hands too tight and the rope left burns on my wrists.”

“Indeed I did. Did I ever apologize?”

“Not properly. You were rather indignant by the fact that your father had dragged you back to the house by the scruff of your neck in order to apologize.”

“Ah, yes, now I remember, a litany about how a man is to treat a lady, and it is not by leaving marks on her
person. All clear now. In fact, I even recall what he was wearing as he gave me that lesson. And I do call to mind that it was not a very gentlemanly apology. Allow me to make amends, then.”

He stepped close, out of the shadows. She could see him clearly now, his ruffled hair, the dark green of his eyes and the black shading on his cheeks and chin. Reaching for her hand, he lifted it up to his gaze, his green eyes lingering over her paint-stained fingers before turning her hand over and running his fingertips along the blue veins of her wrist. “No scars?”

“No.”

He glanced up at her then, devilry in his eyes. “I would hate to think I marked you.”

Her hand suddenly felt a bit damp in his, the heat of the day and her stroll no doubt catching up with her.

“Blossom. Please accept my humblest apologies for tying you up too tight.” His smile turned from boyish to wicked, and Blossom saw instantly how successful he must be in making the opposite sex swoon with delight. “I vow, the next time I find myself tying you up, I won't leave marks. And you definitely won't go crying to your papa.”

“T
HE NEXT TIME!”

He laughed despite himself. She was so riled and enraged. Her cheeks were flushed pink, making her dark blue eyes glisten. He could hardly breathe she was so beautiful—and so close to him. It was utterly unimaginable how Samuel could not find himself hopelessly smitten with Blossom. He was besotted, that was for certain. One look at her and he was thinking all manner of improper, base thoughts. Lust and Blossom had a way of becoming symbiotic in his brain.

“Jase, you beast, you're teasing me. You always teased me.”

“Perhaps.” Although, the image of Blossom bound in scarlet ribbons teased him far more.

“What brings you to the fort, of all places?”

He shrugged, trying to find his footing. “I suppose I felt a bit reminiscent.”

“I understand. As I was strolling the paths, reading Edward's letter, it brought back many childhood memories of us playing in this fort, and fishing in the lake.”

His eyes dropped to the white folded paper she held in her hand. “How is Edward? I haven't seen him in a month. We last were together at the Black Swan, in York.”

“He's gone to the Lake District.” She smiled as her thumb passed over Wallingford's seal. “He claims to return home.”

“And when is that?”

“Soon, he says. But I don't fully believe him. He's restless and unsettled, searching for something, but I don't believe he knows just exactly what he's looking for.”

Jase wondered what he himself was truly looking for. He had always thought himself contented with life, but these past few days, traveling back from Yorkshire, he had found himself thinking on his future more and more. He had thought of his future, and not for the first time, a fleeting image of a home and a woman who loved him flickered to mind. That woman looked remarkably similar to Blossom. But he forced it to the back of his mind. Desire was one thing. He had never confused it before. But this was Blossom, and for some strange damn reason, the desire felt different. Deeper. Why, he could not fathom. They had never even shared a kiss, let alone their bodies. So how his desire for her felt so much more powerful, he could not fathom. He could only acknowledge that it was the truth—and that it frightened him.

A moment of awkward silence passed between them, a minute of him staring down at her, taking in every inch of her being, and wondering what he was about, coming there to see her; and her, avoiding that gaze.

“So, you're home at last. What was the inducement?” she asked.

You
. “I thought it time.”

The last time he'd been home was when Samuel had announced his engagement to her, and he had been forced to endure a celebratory dinner in their honor. The next morning, he had packed his bags for his northern estate and focused his attentions on his horses and stables. He had, or so he thought, convinced himself that he didn't really care about Blossom. He'd wanted only to bed her. He'd believed it, too, until that night spent with Trevere and the Carringtons, when their inebriated talk had turned to marriage, and the image of Blossom had reared up.
He thought if he saw her again, he might get the crazed thoughts out of his head, once and for all. But they were still there, and the thoughts were getting more and more absurd the longer he gazed down at her.

“I understand your parents are hosting a party?”

He saw her expression change, heard the almost imperceptible groan from her lips. “Indeed they are.”

“And are you not enjoying yourself?”

“As much as I ever did at these sorts of functions. Parties and balls interfere with my work, I'm afraid, and I'm most selfish with my time. I don't like it interrupted.”

Smiling, he reached for her hand and unfurled her fingers so that her fingertips lay in the center of his palm. Her thumb and index finger were tinged with smudges of black and blue and a small smearing of white.
Charming.

One of his most guilty pleasures was to secretly watch Blossom paint. She was transfixed by the canvas before her, lost in a world that only she could see. Her hair, which was red as a young child, had turned onyx. It was now black and shining, usually dragging loose from its pins. The aprons she wore to protect her clothes were always covered in paint, and he'd fantasized about coming up behind her and pulling the strings loose, kissing her neck, dragging his tongue up her throat to catch her lips in a searing, passionate, openmouthed kiss. With his ministrations and caresses, Blossom would not be perturbed to find herself interrupted from her work. Indeed, his seductions might be the very muse she required.

“Lord Halston couldn't keep his eyes from my hands at tea this afternoon,” she said with a smile as she looked at her hand lying in his. “I think I might have given him paroxysms.”

“Halston is an ass if he can't see you for what you are.” Oh, God, he could see her, and he wanted her. He wouldn't change a damn thing about her—well, perhaps
her opinion of him, which seemed to be decidedly friendly, not amorous.

She pulled her hand away but not before she glanced at her fingers. “It is terribly rude to come to tea with paint on your fingers—not to mention a stained apron.”

Ah, so she had intentionally set out to shock the poor bastard. Halston could have no knowledge of what lay in store for him if he were to seriously pursue Blossom. “I suppose you thought you should give him a good showing of what he might find after marriage?”

She smiled up at him. “Indeed I did. Samuel never minded my paint-stained fingers or aprons, or the odd smudge on my cheek, and to be honest, I never thought twice about such things. Since…our parting, I've come to the realization that I am not inclined to change my ways for a man. He must accept me as is. Warts and stained aprons and a decidedly distracted mind when I am in the midst of creating.”

The mention of his brother soured his mood. They had been getting on rather well, renewing their acquaintance with surprising ease. But now the air was heavy, charged with uncomfortable silence.

“So you meant to warn him, did you? Let him know what will come first in any marriage arrangement he might propose?”

“Indeed. I suppose it's best to begin how I mean to go on.”

He took a step closer to her, narrowing the space between them. “And how do you mean to go on?”

Her breath caught, and she took a step back. “I mean to have the sort of marriage I want, and nothing will dissuade me from it.”

“And what sort of marriage do you wish for?”

Her mouth trembled and she took another step back. Immediately, she seemed recovered. “I should think that
a private matter, my lord. Something to be discussed between me and my future husband.”

He smiled—one of a hungry predator spotting lame prey. So easily cornered. So easily taken in his hold and consumed…

“Perhaps I am inquiring for my own edification so that I might court you and come out the winner of your lovely paint-stained hand.”

The comment was out before he could stop it. He was as surprised as Blossom looked. She paled, her eyes wary, and then suddenly she brightened, her lips breaking open in a wise smile. “You're teasing me!” Her body seemed to sag in relief. “Honestly, sir, you are such a rake!” She laughed up at him. “How the silly London girls must swoon at your antics.”

He frowned. How could she laugh and so easily discard what he had said? He had never said anything of the like to a woman before now.

“Oh, I could almost believe that you are truly wounded. How you have perfected that pout and narrow-eyed look!” She laughed again. “My lord, you are vastly amusing. You always made me laugh and it is good to have a laugh again.”

This was most certainly
not
what he had expected. He was wounded, damn it. Grievously so.

“I should be going. I've been away from the house for some time and I have dinner to prepare for. You'll be coming tonight, with your parents, I assume? I'll tell Mama to expect one more—or two? Did you bring a guest with you on your return home?”

“No, no guest. And I will most definitely be at dinner tonight.”

“How wonderful. It will be nice to have a friend there.”

A friend. Well, it was a start. What had he expected,
her to throw herself into his arms and kiss him wildly? They had been friends as children; that friendship had deteriorated into a passing acquaintance during her first Season, for reasons he could not fathom. In the ensuing years, they had lost contact, mostly because she was distant, and he was tired of feeling jealous watching her with his brother.

This meeting was truly more than he should have ever hoped for, but the cordiality of it made his mood a bit sour. She had laughed at him, and he had been attempting to bare his heart. A heart he had never allowed himself to look too deeply into.

“Till tonight, then, my lord.”

“Yes. Till tonight.”

She left the fort without a backward glance, and he moved to the window and watched her progress down the path. Never once did she look back at the fort—at him. A sudden, most distasteful thought occurred to him. She was utterly indifferent to him.

 

T
OSSING THE REINS TO
the stable boy, Jase jumped off his stallion and all but ran up the steps that led to his home— Eden Park. It had not changed much since his boyhood days, and the ease brought him comfort. He wasn't the sort of creature who enjoyed change, and seeing the familiar white lace curtains billowing through the open window of his mother's salon made him smile.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Beetle, their butler, murmured as the front door swung wide open. “If I might say so, milord, you've been greatly missed.”

Pulling his hat from his head, Jase raked a hand through his unruly curls. “Thank you, Beetle. It's good to be home.”

“You'll find your parents in the green salon, my lord.”

Jase thrust his hat to the butler and walked the few steps to the salon, not waiting for the footman to open the door. Inside, the sun shone through the lace curtains, and a rose-scented breeze blew in. His mother was seated on a cream-colored settee, embroidering; his father, head bent, was busy at his desk, scratching away at a missive. On the floor, dark hair in pigtails, sat his sister, reading a book.

“Jase!”

“Look at you!” he cried as Julia jumped up and launched herself into his embrace. “You've grown, moppet.” He chuckled as he swung her up. Her face lit up and he wondered how it was that his baby sister had grown up so quickly in just a few months.

“Well, I'm twelve now, you know. I'm not a little girl.”

He smiled and let her feet rest on the ground. “I see you're wearing the necklace I sent you for your birthday.”

“I am.” Reaching up she tried to place a kiss on his cheek, but she was still too short, so he bent down, reaching for the little peck.

“Thank you, brother.”

“You're most welcome.”

“Jase.” It was his mother's turn to kiss him. Quietly she came to him, her eyes glistening with tears. “We have seen you but for a week this past year. I thought we might have to send out the militia to find you.”

Hugging her tight he held her close to him, then allowed his father to come to him, who hugged him tight, patting his back with strong hands. His father had always been an affectionate man. He was not one to hide his thoughts and feelings. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and Jase feared he was very much like him in that regard, although he tried fiercely to hide the fact.

“About time you got back,” his father teased. “I need some advice about the new stables. And I received a letter from Crompton just the other day. He says the mare you bought to mate with your stallion has taken to him. Crompton believes she is with foal. Also there is a market in Derby next week. I was thinking of going, but now that you're here, perhaps we might go together.”

“Lindsay.” His mother laughed as she snuggled up to her husband. “Allow him to rest and catch his breath. He's dusty from his journey and needs a drink and a meal. Then you may talk of horses and Derby and whatever else you desire.”

Grudgingly his father admitted defeat. Besides, Jase hadn't come home to talk about their breeding program, or stables. He came to see Blossom, and somehow both his parents knew it. He could see into the workings of his father's mind, and saw that he knew of his son's affliction—and the purpose behind his return home after so long an absence.

“Pet,” his father said to Julia. “I believe Cook is making luncheon. Will you go and tell her that your brother has arrived, and is famished. She'll need to make more sandwiches and lemonade.”

“Of course, Papa.” Julia turned to him and smiled. “I missed you, Jase. I hope that this time you'll stay longer.”

“Yes, moppet, I will. For a long time, I hope.”

“Good, because my dance instructor has taught me the waltz, and I'd like to practice it with you.”

Bowing, he reached for his sister's hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “It would be my honor.”

Wrinkling her nose, she gazed up at him. “I do hope you're better at it than Papa. He trods on my toes.”

As she skipped out of the room, Jase watched her leave. The door closed, and he whirled around to confront his
parents, who had removed themselves to the settee. His father was seated beside his mother, with an arm casually draped over her shoulder. His mother was resting her head against his father's chest, her hand clutched in his free one.

The image was one of love and support. A comfort and ease with each other. He wanted that sort of relationship, he suddenly realized. After nearly thirty years of marriage, he wanted to sit on the settee with Blossom and hold her like that. He wanted to feel the weight of her head against his chest. Wanted her to hear his heart beating beneath her ear—the heart that beat only for her. He wanted to glance down to his lap and find their hands entwined, resting on his thighs, their plain gold wedding bands glinting in the afternoon sunlight.