One bride too many, p.1
One Bride Too Many, page 1
One Bride Too Many
A Regency Novella
Connie Brockway
Amber House Books
Contents
One Bride Too Many Blurb
Praise for Connie Brockway
Books by Connie Brockway
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Books by Connie Brockway
About the Author
Lassie, Go Home Sneak Peek
One Bride Too Many
by Connie Brockway
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Can two stubborn hearts be seduced into betting on true love?
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When Alexander Thorpe returns from the Crimean War, he is no longer the viscount Lucy St. James once adored. Although he treats her with cool detachment, Lucy is alarmed to discover Alex is even more irresistible than the man who won her heart three years before.
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Alex returns to discover Lucy has yet to become the bride of another man. He has never forgiven the spirited beauty for the moment their “understanding” became a misunderstanding. But when a ridiculous wager throws Alex and Lucy back into each other’s arms, they must decide once and for all if they are willing to forsake their pride for their passion…
Praise for Connie Brockway
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“Connie Brockway’s work brims with warmth, wit, sensuality and intelligence.”—Amanda Quick, New York Times bestselling author
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“Romance with strength, wit, and intelligence. Connie Brockway delivers!” — Tami Hoag, New York Times bestselling author
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“If it’s smart, sexy, and impossible to put down, it’s a book by Connie Brockway — Christina Dodd, New York Times bestselling author
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“If you’re looking for passion, tenderness, wit, and warmth, you need look no further. Connie Brockway is simply the best.” — Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author
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“Brockway’s lush, lyrical writing style is a perfect match for her vivid characters, beautiful atmospheric setting, and sensuous love scenes.” — Library Journal
Amber House Books by Connie Brockway
The Golden Season
So Enchanting
As You Desire
A Dangerous Man
The Bridal Season
Bridal Favors
One Bride Too Many
Lassie, Go Home
Copyright Info
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No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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Copyright © 2019 by Connie Brockway. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-943505-54-8
Cover design by Control Freak Productions
Cover Photo © Period Images
Cover Background © Fedor Selivanov (Used via license of Shutterstock.com)
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Published by Amber House Books, LLC
http://www.amberhousebooks.com
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For more information, contact publisher@amberhousebooks.com
Created with Vellum
Chapter 1
St John’s Wood, ten miles outside of London
The Height of the Season, June 1856
“Even if you did win your wager, how in God’s name do you expect me to fulfill the requirements?” Alexander, Viscount Thorpe, asked in disgust.
“My great-aunt’s attic is a warren filled to overflowing with my ancestors’ detritus.” Across the gaming table Hugh St. James lifted eyes as dark blue as his sister’s to meet Alex’s. Hugh was drunk, disastrously drunk, yet he still managed to invest his slurred words with a jeer. “I’m sure we’ll find something suitable.”
Marcus Penworthy and Tom Davidson, having long since bowed out of the current game, traded anxious glances. Even the servant, whose sole duty was to keep their glasses filled with their host’s best claret, could not keep the concern from his expression.
This was not going to end well. The viscount had always been constitutionally incapable of backing down from a challenge, and Hugh St. James kept hurling taunts at him.
It was a shame, as not long ago these two men had been boon companions, raised on neighboring estates. They had even gone to Oxford together. It was there Penworthy had met and befriended both.
“What will it be, Thorpe?” asked Hugh. Once, the handsome young man had been as well known for his easygoing nature as his boldness. Though he was no longer so easygoing, he was still bold, though the word “foolish” came more easily to mind this night.
Certainly, it was foolish to bait someone as formidable as the viscount Thorpe. All six feet four inches of his powerful frame vibrated with rigidity, and the scar he’d won in the Battle of Balaklava showed red against his lean cheek before snaking beneath the hard angle of a square jaw.
No one had ever accused Alexander Thorpe of being easygoing, but he had been capable of laughter. Now his expression was always stern, his wide mouth having forgotten what it was to smile. Though he had always been frank, now his manner was blunt to the point of rudeness.
Some thought the Crimean War had made Alex aloof and abrupt. But Penworthy thought the same thing that divided Alex from St. James was also responsible for his stern, unyielding demeanor—St. James’s sister, Lucy.
“Bless me, I can scarce countenance it! The great, the mighty, the infallible Viscount Thorpe is uncertain?” Hugh asked as the moment grew longer and Alex still hadn’t answered. “I swear, what next? Are the heavens to fall?”
The viscount drummed his well-manicured fingertips against his overturned cards. They hadn’t come here with a mind to gamble, but upon entering the ballroom Penworthy had noted the moment Alex’s gaze had found Lucy’s on the dance floor below. He’d nodded in curt acknowledgment, and she had angled up a dark brow in mocking reply.
They should have left then. And, indeed, for half a minute Alex had hesitated at the top of the stairs before swinging around and gruffly stating his intention of finding himself a game of cards. Penworthy, who’d been rather looking forward to dancing with a few of the Season’s beauties, had reluctantly followed.
Unfortunately, an hour later her brother had found the same companions. And still Alex hadn’t taken Fate’s prodigious hint and departed. No, he must stay and play and drink.
They had been at this table for nearly three hours, during which time ten thousand pounds had found its way into St. James’s pockets. It should have ended there, with St. James smugly and righteously victorious, but it hadn’t. It had come to this. St. James, flush with the mistaken notion of his luck’s infallibility, had insisted on one last foolhardy bet that all but guaranteed Alex would recoup every last penny he’d lost this evening and then some.
There was a catch, of course. There was always a catch. Thorpe must first agree to St. James’s ridiculous terms should he lose.
Not that he was going to lose. St. James hadn’t a hope in hell of winning.
St. James would need to draw to an inside royal flush in order to beat the ten high straight that had become Alex’s hand on the last flip of the card. The probability of its happening was essentially nonexistent. Even the unnatural luck that had attached itself to St. James all evening could not hold out against such overwhelming odds.
“Well, Thorpe, what’s it to be? Do you accept?”
“Don’t be a fool, Hugh. You only make yourself ridiculous,” Alex answered.
The room went utterly silent except for the susurration of the gaslight in the sconces, hissing like a scold. Davidson’s eyes widened, and Penworthy shook his head. Must Alex always say exactly what he meant?
“Ridiculous?” Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “Too late. You’ve already seen to that.”
At Alex’s stony silence, Hugh’s smile thinned. “Or is it only the females in my family you bother making ridiculous?”
Alex did not answer, but his scar grew pale against the darkening hue of his face.
“Indeed, I would think you would relish an excuse to continue,” Hugh went on, ignoring Penworthy’s silently mouthed admonitions. “Start with my sister and work your way up through me…who knows? Next year the opportunity may present itself to make a foe of my great-aunt Sophie.”
“Bring me a piece of paper and a pen,” Alex abruptly barked, lifting his hand and gesturing sharply toward the attendant hovering near the doorway. “I shall give you my vowels for the amount on the table, St. James.”
St. James leaned over the green felt, arms braced on either side of his four upturned cards. A lock of dark auburn hair fell across his forehead. “I don’t want your bloody vowels, Alex.”
“Are you suggesting that my note is not good?” Alex asked in a carefully neutral voice.
At that St. James scoffed. “Good God, man! Do I look ready to shuffle off my mortal coil? No. I am certain your note is worth as much as your name. It is just th at I do not want your money, Thorpe. I want you brought low. I want to deal a blow to that overweening pride of yours. I want you to know what it feels like. What Lucy felt like. And I want these gentlemen”—he gestured blindly toward Penworthy and Davidson—“to bear witness.”
“This is absurd,” Alex said, his jaw bunching. It would take a great deal to push him into accepting a wager he could not lose from a man who could not afford the loss. Especially one as drunk as St. James. The amount on the table was formidable even to a man as rich as Alex. To one less wealthy, like St. James, it would represent half a year’s income.
But Alex Thorpe could be pushed too hard.
“In or out?” St. James demanded.
“I refuse to accept such a wager,” Alex answered.
“Coward.” The word echoed in the silent room.
“Hugh!” Penworthy whispered urgently, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Desist!”
St. James shook him off angrily. “Who else but a coward would refuse to allow his victim a chance to settle the score?”
“You are and never were my victim, Hugh,” Alex said tightly.
“I beg to disagree. It was my sister whom you publicly insulted and thus, by extension, myself.”
“It was not well done of me. I concede that now,” Alex ground out, amazing Penworthy. In the two years since it had happened, Alex had never referred to that night.
“No, it was not well done,” Hugh agreed, his face darkening.
“But she danced three times with Desmond Fitzgerald. Three times when it was understood by everyone that…that she was my…”
His betrothed, Penworthy silently finished when Alex’s lips pressed together, refusing to allow another betraying syllable to escape.
Yet…Lucy St. James had not been his betrothed. Nor had she ever been. Not officially. Whatever understanding existed between Alex and Lucy had been of a private nature. If it had existed at all. Except that everyone, apparently including Alex, had thought it did. And certainly, for several years and through several Seasons before the “incident”, Lucy had acted as if it was understood, as well.
During their years of…courtship? dalliance? association? she had danced many more than three times with Thorpe in a single evening. She had gone driving in the park with him. She had visited his townhouse. On several occasions, she’d been seen dining with him at London’s finest restaurants. And she had done all these things without a chaperone, without apology, flaunting Society’s rules, tweaking their collective noses.
Lucy St. James was as spirited and independent as her brother was hot-tempered and bold. It had seemed to all of them that Alex had admired those qualities. But then, it would appear that they had all been wrong about that, too. He certainly had not been appreciative of her independence two years ago.
“And that wasn’t the worst of it. Not in the least. My God, what she put me through!” Alex’s voice was raised, his eyes flashing. The rare display of emotion from so famously a self-controlled man caused Davidson, who did not know either gentleman as well as Penworthy did, to grow slack-jawed with wonder.
“You were jealous,” Hugh sneered.
Alex made a dismissive and impatient sound. “You don’t understand.”
“Not jealous?” Hugh asked bitterly. “Then your pride was offended. An excellent reason to insult a lady.” Alex ground his teeth together, an involuntary muscle lifting his upper lip in a snarl.
“She had spent the entire Season flirting and dancing and playing the coquette,” Alex said in a cold, terse voice. “She was making a fool of me. You yourself noted it. You even commented on it. You said, ‘Best beware, Alex, she intends to lead you a merry dance’!”
Hugh bolted to his feet and leaned over the table, his knuckles braced against the surface. “And you drawled back, ‘Yes. A telling flaw, that. Lucy must always lead, and I find that I no longer have a taste for following.’ “
“You could not have found a more public venue for your statement—nor more avid ears to hear it than in the crowd gathered that evening. I can still hear their titters! And then, not to leave any doubt as to your opinion of the lady everyone assumed you would make your wife, you left her to find her own way home.”
“So I did!” Alex shouted back. His hands clenched into fists on the tabletop, as though recalling how they’d wanted to clench about Fitzhugh’s neck. Or had it been Lucy’s neck he had imagined wringing? Penworthy wasn’t certain he could guess.
“She told me you left her there without so much as bidding her a good evening,” St. James thundered.
“I am surprised she mentioned it to you. How kind of her to have noted my leaving,” Alex bit out. “I recall hearing later that she stayed until four in the morning and danced twice more with Fitzhugh.”
For a long moment the two men’s gazes locked, their jaws tight. Then, as though realizing how close he stood to violence, Alex took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. He spread his palms flat on the table, staring at them as he pushed himself back in his seat.
“You are not the only one with a surplus of pride, Thorpe.” St. James, too, seemed to realize how close they’d come to blows. He sank back down in his chair, his mouth twisting. “What else could she do to save face?”
“Ah, I see. And that accounts for the next day, too, when she was at Carleton House until dawn, and the day after that, when she danced so long at the Monforts’ that she needed to be carried from the room by two ‘strapping footmen’?” His laughter held no amusement. “I fear you took our separation a good deal harder than your sister did, Hugh.”
“How would you know?” St. James asked, upending the rest of his wine into his mouth. “You left for the Crimea within a fortnight. Without even calling on her.”
“I didn’t want to interfere with her social activities.”
“Ever the gentleman. And it was that same gentlemanly restraint that kept you from coming to call when you returned home?”
“Yes.”
No, Penworthy thought. Whether or not Alex wanted the world to think his relationship with Lucy St. James had faded to indifference, Penworthy knew better. He had been there the first time Alex had seen Lucy St. James after his return from Russia. He had heard him catch his breath when she appeared on the other side of the coffee shop where they’d been drinking. He had seen the expression in Alex’s eyes, lost and dazed, when he’d murmured, without taking his eyes from her, “Penworthy, please. No one has written me such, but I find I…I really must know. Before I…before I speak to her. Did she marry Fitzhugh?”
“No, Alex,” he’d said gently. “Miss St. James is unwed.”
He hadn’t needed to see the relief flood Alex’s eyes. He’d seen it in the way Alex’s entire body had relaxed. Alex had risen and made his way through the crowded little inn to her table. There, he had bowed over her hand and greeted her with some mild triviality. She had responded in kind. And just as easily as that, they’d agreed to act as if nothing had ever been between them. For the sake of their pride.
Since then Alex had never asked another question regarding Lucy St. James, nor, indeed, had he ever mentioned her name.
Now, if only Hugh had been as civil as his sister. Unfortunately, Hugh made it clear to all and sundry that he laid the blame for his sister’s ongoing spinsterhood firmly at Alex’s door. Because “who would wed a woman whose onetime fiancé found her so unfeminine and forward that he must make a public declaration of such?”
