At the Bride Hunt Ball

  At the Bride Hunt Ball

  Olivia Parker

  In loving memory

  My grandmother,

  Celia Garczynski, 1921–1992

  And for my mom,

  my rescuer, my therapist, my audience,

  my friend, my inspiration.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  “Don’t fret, my dear. Perhaps one day you’ll blossom into…

  Chapter 2

  “You’re throwing me to the wolves?” Madelyn’s heartbeat tripped as…

  Chapter 3

  Gabriel took one look at Miss Haywood and instantly regretted…

  Chapter 4

  By noon the entire household knew exactly where Madelyn had…

  Chapter 5

  Four days later Madelyn was forced to admit that the…

  Chapter 6

  “Arming oneself with bow and arrow when one’s rivals are…

  Chapter 7

  He couldn’t stop thinking about her. And all the different…

  Chapter 8

  Perhaps if he banged his head hard enough on the…

  Chapter 9

  The next afternoon, Madelyn was still recovering from the astonishment…

  Chapter 10

  Madelyn looked up into eyes of blue flame and a…

  Chapter 11

  “Psst. Wake up, Madelyn.”

  Chapter 12

  They were loaded in a wagon like sheep at the…

  Chapter 13

  Pulling the thick, ivory coverlet up to her nose, Madelyn…

  Chapter 14

  Belinda and Bernadette continued to poke about the hall with…

  Chapter 15

  It was harder than she thought.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning, there came a knock on Madelyn’s bedchamber…

  Chapter 17

  “His gaze has been fastened on you since the moment…

  Chapter 18

  A wide, shallow puddle sheltered from the sun by a…

  Chapter 19

  “So tell me,” Charlotte murmured from behind her glass of…

  Chapter 20

  An hour later Madelyn sat opposite Charlotte in the cushioned…

  Epilogue

  “All hands! All hands on deck, I say,” Lady Eugenia…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Romances

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  “Don’t fret, my dear. Perhaps one day you’ll blossom into a beauty like my Harriet.”

  Miss Madelyn Haywood nibbled on her bottom lip as she weighed her choices. She could scream, making a frenzied dash for the French doors in the adjoining room, or she could retain her composure and nod agreeably.

  “Ah…thank you,” Madelyn replied. Politeness won.

  “Don’t look so forlorn.” Lady Beauchamp waved her fan vigorously in a vain attempt to mask a belch. Her aunt’s stale breath was a clear indication the woman was good and foxed. “There are still two more cards to be presented, yes? You could be so fortunate. It’s said miracles happen all the time.” She started to giggle, but a hiccup cut her short.

  “Let me assure you I haven’t the slightest inclination to receive one.” Madelyn lifted her chin and pretended to look about the room.

  “Oh dear,” Lady Beauchamp exclaimed, closing her fan with a snap. “That’s why you’re here, why we’re all here. What great fun is this! Just think, soon even you could have a chance to be a duchess!” Using her fan, her aunt made a stabbing gesture toward four young ladies chatting excitedly by the foot of a grand staircase. “Look at them…smiling like simpletons. If my dear Harriet hadn’t just received an invitation to the ball, I’d think they were deliberately flashing their cards so that I might see. What an atrocious display! Such a lack of decorum!”

  Madelyn gave a short nod in response. Though anxious to quit her aunt’s company, she prayed her association with her father’s sister would forestall any strange possibility that either of the Devine brothers should come near. Lady Beauchamp had a habit of imbibing large amounts of wine at social functions—really, at any function save breakfast—and people seemed to avert their gazes, deftly avoiding the loud, opinionated woman as if she were a knot of rats.

  Madelyn rose on the tips of her slippered feet, hoping to spot her friend amidst the crush of guests. “Aunt Lucinda, do you see Miss Greene?”

  “Do you mean to say Miss Charlotte Greene? Good heavens, she’s here? However does her mother think her scrawny, milk-and-water miss would ever land an invitation to His Grace’s estate? Oh, I pity the girl and her mother for they will certainly walk away this evening disappointed. Charlotte Greene, you say?” Her aunt tossed back her head, bursting into unladylike guffaws.

  Incensed, Madelyn opened her mouth to defend her friend when the ostrich plumes tucked inside the folds of her aunt’s blue turban tickled the nose of the gentleman standing behind her. He erupted into a sneeze, then glared at the back of the viscountess’s head. He was still looking at her thus when her aunt turned around, apparently to see what had collided with her headwear.

  Madelyn stifled a small grin, satisfied the gentleman managed to give her aunt a scornful glare, encapsulating all of what Madelyn needed to say in defense of her dear friend.

  The stout woman slurred her apology, then promptly excused herself from Madelyn’s company with a swish of her skirts. She watched her aunt wander directly into the very crowd of young women she’d just admonished—no doubt to find some other young lady to perk up.

  After a brief inspection of the room’s occupants, Madelyn located her stepmother, arms linked with Lady Beauchamp’s Harriet. She made a wide arc around the pair as she passed, putting scores of guests between them. She felt her stepmother’s arctic glare prickling the back of her head as she slipped into the adjoining room.

  In the ballroom, she was about to give up hope of ever finding her friend when she spotted Charlotte, executing her best impression of a tea rose on the hand-painted Chinese wallpaper at her back. As Madelyn made her way through the sea of people, talk of the duke and his brother rippled around her.

  “…such a scandalous way to find a wife for the presumptive heir, don’t you agree? All those innocent ladies locked away with the Devine men for a fortnight…”

  “…very clever of the old Wolf, wish I thought of it first…”

  “…strange he isn’t taking a bride himself and wants his brother to carry on the family line…”

  “…I say, it’s damned unfair. He’s likely to choose only the best of the lot for his brother, leaving only the seasoned nags for us to pick from…”

  Seasoned nags? She turned and gave the man who uttered that particular phrase a good glare.

  This being her fourth season, Madelyn thought she could pen a novel cataloging the names of all the crafty rakes and pompous heirs she’d come across. Naturally, at the top of her list of insufferable men would be the Brothers Devine.

  Arrogance and wickedness never before blended to form such tempting packages. For in the heart of every romantic female of the ton lurked the secret desire to spark the interest of one of the proud Devines. Of course, it helped that they were members of one the wealthiest, most ancient lineages in all of England. With Lord Tristan’s wicked recklessness, and the Duke of Wolverest’s brooding arrogance, eager mamas looking to marry off their hopeful debutantes rallied to the challenge. Unfortunately for them, the Devines’ questionable pursuits didn’t include virgins or marriage. Until now.

  However, Madelyn was no fool. She could well imagine the brothers held this ball for some darker purpose. She knew men like them well—the
sort who gave little more care to a woman’s heart than they did the roast pheasant they had enjoyed for dinner. Lord Rothbury was one, and her stepmother had ordered her to accept it along with the earl’s proposal last season. Madelyn had flatly refused. She had been locked in the wine cellar for a day as punishment. It would have been longer had their butler quit sampling the Haywoods’ stock of spirits as he had promised.

  Charlotte smiled as Madelyn approached. “Clever girl. I didn’t think you’d ever leave your aunt’s side.”

  “Yes, and you could have used her as a shield of sorts as well. Your companionship would’ve lessened my suffering,” Madelyn teased.

  Telltale red splotches bloomed on Charlotte’s cheeks and neck. Her smile faltered and her gaze dropped to the floor.

  “Is something wrong?” Madelyn asked, knowing Charlotte had high hopes of receiving an invitation to Wolverest Castle. Perhaps she was now feeling the effects of rejection.

  The poor dear, Madelyn thought when her friend answered only with a tiny shake of her head. She was quite sure Charlotte would make a suitable wife for any man—just not Lord Tristan. Unfortunately, Charlotte considered herself half in love with the pompous rake already—along with every other romantic lady of marriageable age.

  A flash of crumbled white peeked out of Charlotte’s fist. Madelyn’s brow rose. “What’s that you’re holding?”

  “Oh, ’tis nothing.” Charlotte looked up but failed to meet Madelyn’s gaze. “Did you know Wolverest Castle is in Yorkshire? I don’t know exactly where, but not far from West Burton, my mother said. Perhaps near your mother’s cottage.”

  “Indeed.” She gave a short nod. “Willowbrooke is on the outskirts of the Wolverest estate. Speaking of our host, midnight is nigh upon us and I haven’t seen His Grace. Though I doubt I’d recognize him anyway.”

  “Quite.” Charlotte nodded her agreement.

  Between the both of them, they were only marginally acquainted with Lord Tristan. And as for the Duke of Wolverest, not at all. When His Grace came to town for the parliamentary session, he only attended a scattering of highborn functions to which Madelyn would never in a hundred years find herself invited. Which suited her fine. She certainly didn’t need another stuffy aristocrat wagging his finger at her for her lack of sophistication.

  “To be sure, I’m beginning to think His Grace isn’t here at all,” Madelyn remarked with a touch of hope. “Well, he has only two more ladies to invite to his castle and then this horrid evening will finally be over.”

  “There’s only one more left now.” Charlotte pressed her lips together so hard they turned white.

  “Oh?” Madelyn prompted, curious about Charlotte’s odd reaction to her query. “Did you see who she was? Do we know her?”

  “N-No. I’m not certain,” Charlotte stammered, suddenly finding sincere interest in something across the room.

  She cleared her throat delicately to garner Charlotte’s flagging attention. “To think he has his sister and his solicitor pick the potential brides,” she said, widening her eyes. “Scandalous, wouldn’t you agree?” Charlotte didn’t answer, so Madelyn followed her friend’s line of vision.

  Across the room a young woman sat plucking an enchanting melody on a harp, though the hum of conversation nearly drowned out the sound. Still, Madelyn suspected there must be something other than a harpist holding her friend in this state of distraction.

  Behind the musician, Lady Rosalind leaned down to speak with the duke’s solicitor. Acting as hostess for her brothers, Lady Rosalind had swept from guest to guest, making light conversation throughout the evening. After speaking with the solicitor, she would disappear for short periods, slipping through a pair of tall doors underneath the sweeping staircase. It was then Mr. Ashton would present the next invitation.

  As there were to be seven potential brides, there was only one invitation left.

  Perhaps Lady Rosalind was consulting with her brothers. Madelyn imagined they lounged in their private rooms, sipping claret as they waited for their sister to return and divulge just who their next unwitting victim was to be. She shuddered visibly.

  “Are you unwell?” Charlotte asked with concern.

  “Just my cursed imaginings ’tis all,” Madelyn murmured, returning her gaze to Lady Rosalind and the messenger of doom.

  She observed the pair until Lady Rosalind excused herself from Mr. Ashton’s company after casting a glance in her and Charlotte’s direction. The duke’s sister smiled briefly, then exited through the tall doors under the grand staircase.

  If the pattern held true, there would be another invitation presented shortly. The tension in her shoulders eased as a wave of relief washed over her. The evening would be over soon. Her stepmother would surely make a fuss and declare her lack of enthusiasm as the reason she wasn’t chosen. But perhaps there was a chance she could manage to persuade her way into traveling to Yorkshire with Aunt Lucinda and Harriet. With the both of them preoccupied with the hope that Harriet would catch the interest of the younger Devine, she could plan an early return to Willowbrooke Cottage. Husbandless yes, but her heart would remain her own.

  “He’s staring at you.”

  Madelyn looked up and caught the solicitor’s gaze. Mr. Ashton’s smile resembled the starry-eyed gape of a besotted fool. He straightened the spectacles on his thin nose without breaking eye contact. Indeed, he was staring. A knot of dread as heavy as a cannonball dropped in the pit of her stomach.

  “It’s quite unnerving, isn’t it?” Madelyn struggled to keep her voice sounding bored and disinterested. “He very well could be staring at you.”

  “I hardly think so.” Charlotte giggled. “I’ve been watching him for several moments. I believe he’s on his way over.”

  “You’re jesting with me?” Madelyn asked with swelling panic. She looked to where Mr. Ashton once stood and found him gone. Her eyes skimmed the crowd for a moment until she spied him weaving through the guests. He held a white note card to his chest, his eyes flashing with what she assumed was anticipation of the recipient’s elated swoon.

  “Oh, dear. This cannot be happening.”

  “Don’t panic. Just graciously accept the invitation like everyone else,” Charlotte offered. “I must say, Maddie, you’re my dearest friend, but I don’t quite understand why you wouldn’t want to attend. It’s wildly eccentric and all very exciting.”

  “It’s arrogant madness.” Madelyn looked left then right without turning her head as she weighed the easiest route of escape. Guests loomed everywhere, their gazes locked on the solicitor and his progress across the room. Her heart thudded madly within her chest. She couldn’t very well burst through the swell of people—she’d be caught swiftly by Mr. Ashton for sure. She was well and truly trapped, unless…She turned, her gaze drawn to the candlelight’s luminous reflection on the French doors at her far left.

  “Let’s split up. I’ll try losing him by running into the garden. If ’tis me he’s targeting, he’d never think to find me there standing amidst a downpour.”

  She didn’t wait to see if Charlotte chose to flee or not. Instead, she dashed toward the rain-streaked glass doors, taking an indirect route around a row of potted lemon trees marking the entrance to the conservatory. Realizing too late that she’d walked herself into a corner, she plucked one of the hard balls of unripe fruit as she raced past. She pushed mightily against the door of the conservatory, losing precious seconds, before realizing it pulled open instead.

  “Miss Haywood!” Mr. Ashton called out, panting. “Miss Haywood, I beg you, wait!”

  With one last glance over her shoulder at the nearing solicitor, she ducked inside the humid room. Zigzagging around rows of exotic blooms, she nearly crashed into a small fountain with a water-spitting frog in its center. Rounding it, her feet skittered on the smooth floor, panic creeping in as she realized there might not be another exit. But in another moment she spied a fogged glass door across the room. Fairly flying, she sprinted to the other side, p
raying it would open to the garden.

  Reaching it, she yanked the door open and flung herself outside. She looked over her shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief. Ashton was no longer in sight—only his muted shouts proclaimed he still hadn’t given up chase.

  She didn’t care if she was making a scene; she was leaving this mansion tonight secure with the decision she would no longer do her stepmother’s bidding. She would not waste any more time chasing after titled men with hefty account ledgers—and insatiable appetites for young flesh—just to appease her stepmother. She would live her life the way she deemed fit, alone with her memories at Willowbrooke Cottage.

  Thankfully, the rain had taken a respite, but the flashes of lightning nearby declared there would be another bout of rain and wind ahead. Upon hearing the door of the conservatory creak open, her hope sank. Apparently, Mr. Ashton was as persistent in his pursuit of the fairer sex as was his employer.

  She spied a flagstone path, which disappeared somewhere underneath a curtain of branches of a willow tree. She headed for the cover it would provide. Glancing down at the knot of fruit in her palm, she tossed it in the air and caught it swiftly, her lips curling into an impish smile. At least she had a weapon.

  Gabriel Thurston Devine, the seventh duke of Wolverest, rested a hip against the balcony railing, his arms crossed over his chest. Looking down into the shadowed garden, he inhaled the scent of wet earth and exhaled it on a low growl.

  The rumblings of conversation merged with the soft thrum of plucked harp strings—the sound rising from the open French doors of the ballroom beneath his rooms.

  He shook his head in disgust. Twenty highly desirable ladies down there, only seven of whom would be singled out to audition for the bride of Devine. It would be quite the miracle, Gabriel mused, if the evening concluded without producing a scattering of catfights. They were all very keen on marrying into his family. Silly creatures. If only they realized what a fool’s heart Tristan possessed.