At the Bride Hunt Ball Read online

  Gabriel had gone to great lengths composing a list of eligible ladies of impeccable beauty, decorum, and wit from which his younger brother would choose a bride. It was a nearly impossible feat, as Gabriel lost several early candidates to marriage along the way. It took nearly a year to finish the ever-changing list, with the assistance of his sister and his aging spinster aunt, who lorded over their affairs as the self-appointed voice of cultivated reason. During this time, Gabriel struggled to convince straight-from-Oxford Tristan that he must marry, produce heirs, and maintain the family dukedom—for Gabriel himself wouldn’t marry. He knew he simply did not have the compulsion to inflict that sort of aggravation on a woman.

  After all, he expected nothing less than perfection, and such a creature didn’t exist. And even if she did, he thought it highly probable that the very flawlessness that first attracted him to any future bride would turn him into a bored, resentful beast in his married life. The thought of sending his wife to waste away the hours at some obscure property, forgotten, lonely, and unwanted, filled him with a very real, very familiar uneasiness. His mother had been such a woman, and he still harbored a bitter resentment toward his father for the emotional torment that man had created.

  A door slammed in the distance, followed by a string of muffled shouts. “Miss Haywood! Miss Haaaywoood! Pray, halt!”

  A wisp of pale yellow fabric flickered down below, followed by a feminine gasp. Someone was in his garden and that someone was decidedly female. And as it appeared, she was being chased. If he didn’t know that Tristan, at the last possible minute, decided to await the arrival of the party in Yorkshire, he’d have assumed his brother had lured one of their female guests into the shadows.

  But who would wander in the rain-soaked garden? The ground was surely saturated, quick to ruin silk shoes and the hems of dinner gowns.

  A dark cloud released the full moon, casting silvery blue light behind the mansion. He winced as the figure tripped and fell over the same uneven flagstone he had stumbled over this morning on his way to his favorite spot to read the morning paper. Gingerly, she brought herself to her knees with a mild curse. Gabriel’s scowl deepened.

  Standing, she looked over her shoulder toward the doors of the ballroom, the light revealing her face. She seemed of average prettiness, he guessed, dark hair and pale skin were the only details he could discern in the shadows. A sudden obliging gust of wind plastered her gown to her curves.

  One dark eyebrow lifted as Gabriel contemplated the curve of her hips and backside. She was narrow-waisted and small, but one wouldn’t describe her as skin on bones. From his vantage point above her, he could hardly deny noticing the deep valley between her breasts. Voluptuous. Yes, that was it. She was voluptuous. He had always preferred small breasts on a woman.

  A shout rang out. The girl jumped, looked about, then slipped under the cover of the sweeping branches of a willow tree.

  To his amazement, a man, who looked quite like his solicitor, came sprinting across the courtyard, slipping to a halt in the mud. His mood darkening further, Gabriel braced his hands on the banister, leaning over to get a better look.

  “You’re not thinking of jumping, are you?” Gabriel’s sister called out from behind him.

  He straightened with a crooked grin. “With my luck I’d only break an arm.”

  “I worry this will not go as planned,” Rosalind warned. “Tristan might enjoy this too much.”

  “The young pup’s more likely to imitate me and waste the entire time finding fault with them all and end up choosing no one.”

  “But what about you?” She heaved a frustrated sigh when he didn’t answer. “You, dear brother, are incredibly stubborn. I know we have talked about this at least a hundred times before, but I had hoped you would change your mind. Why do you insist on being unmarried?”

  He rubbed his brow, growing irritated with this vein of conversation. “You were too young to remember.”

  Apparently judging his mood, Rosalind didn’t press for a more descriptive answer, and he was thankful for it.

  A flash of lightning offered him another glimpse of the figure below. The young lady emerged from under a curtain of branches, but before she could break free from her cover, a branch snagged a curl atop her head. Busily, she worked it free, then leapt behind a tall hedge.

  He shook his head. “Tell me, have any of our guests gone missing?”

  With a grumble, Rosalind folded her arms across her chest. “You’re bored,” she said over her shoulder, ignoring him. “This could have been enjoyable for you had you bothered to pick one for yourself.”

  His hands tightened on the railing. “There is a woman down there I would like you to make certain we invite,” he replied, indicating the garden with a nod of his head.

  Turning, Rosalind placed her hands on her hips and eyed him speculatively. “Down there? ’Tis done, Gabriel. I just picked the last of the seven.”

  “Then make it eight. I must have this one.”

  Rosalind tried peeking above his shoulder, even hopped twice to see over, but to no avail. With a small, sisterly shove, she pushed in front of him for an unobstructed view of the garden.

  As if on command, the young lady peeked out from behind the hedge. Either she’d grown six feet tall, Gabriel thought with a reluctant grin, or she had made use of the stone bench to peek over the top of the hedge.

  “Ooh,” Rosalind almost crooned. “Miss Madelyn Haywood has caught your interest?”

  Haywood? Why did that name stand out in his mind? She wasn’t that half-American maladroit miss who lived her life teetering on the edge of social disaster, was she? Their domineering Aunt Eugenia had specifically ordered the chit removed from the list, and he had heartily agreed.

  Rosalind straightened her spine, a knowing smile dancing upon her lips. “You will be pleased to know I have already invited—”

  “Your Grace! My lady!” Mr. Ashton called out from down the hall before running into Gabriel’s study. His solicitor’s shoes were caked in mud, smeared on the sides where he obviously attempted to wipe them off in haste.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Ashton said before pausing to catch his breath, his bald head gleaming in the firelight. “The last invitee—she eludes me, sir. I cannot believe it myself, but I almost think, I believe—”

  “Spit it out, Ashton,” Gabriel nearly growled.

  “Well, sh-she’s running from me. I—I don’t understand it myself. To think she doesn’t want…that she feels compelled to run…how dare she!”

  “How indeed.” Shrugging on his black frock coat, Gabriel plucked the invitation from Mr. Ashton’s grasp, then tucked it into his inside coat pocket and headed out of the room. “If you’ll excuse me, Rosalind. And thank you, Ashton,” he said distractedly over his shoulder at the doorway. “I’ll manage this little minx myself.”

  A sharp crack of thunder clapped in the distance, followed by a deep, earth-trembling rumble. Madelyn felt its resonance through her thin satin slippers and upward through her bones. The former gentle breeze was now steadily rising, swirling leaves around her in twirls of air.

  After fighting with a sweeping branch for the possession of the hairs piled atop her head, she stepped out from under the willow, certain that Mr. Ashton had given up hope of ever finding her, and even more certain that standing under a tree was the surest way to get lightning to strike it.

  What a disaster! Her knee throbbed terribly from her fall, so she hobbled over to a stone bench on the other side of a tall hedge. Lifting her hem, she stepped atop the bench to peer over. Relieved to discover that Mr. Ashton had indeed apparently given up the chase, she plopped down, cringing as she felt the cool stone dampen her backside through the thin fabric of her gown.

  She let out a small laugh as she noted her appearance. It gave the impression ruffians had accosted her. Her hair had come loose of its chignon, and fat burgundy locks hung down in her face and curled around her shoulders. There was a tear in her mud-dotted
hem, and her shoes were soaked through. She turned her gloved hands over in her lap and saw growing red speckles of blood seeping through small snags in the fabric, surely from catching herself on the stones. Her stepmother was going to kill her. If not for eluding an invitation to Wolverest, then surely for ruining her dress.

  As she lifted the hem of the gown to inspect her knee, she heard a shuffling sound and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Someone was approaching. She sprang from her seat, clutching the unripe lemon in her palm.

  A man emerged from behind the hedge at the exact moment a flash of lightning speared through the sky. Pulling back her arm, she launched the hard lemon in the air, nailing her target square in the forehead.

  He stumbled back. “What the hell was that?”

  Madelyn stared at the tall shadow, her eyes adjusting, focusing on wide shoulders, wind-tossed black hair, thick bangs tumbling forward and nearly reaching his high cheekbones. He was dressed almost entirely in black, except for the stark white of his cravat and shirt. She leaned forward, peering into the shadows. Why, he rather looked like he’d stepped from the pages of one of those gothic novels Charlotte’s nose was always buried in.

  He looked…familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Unfortunately, she did know for certain he was not Mr. Ashton.

  “Oh…no,” she groaned.

  “And good evening to you, Miss Haywood,” he said, with a slight bow of his head, his sultry mouth tugging into a smile.

  A glint of silver brought her attention to his eyes. His gaze was so direct, so soul-reaching, she imagined he could read her thoughts. She took a backward step. “G-Good evening.” Unexpectedly, the pain in her knee throbbed and her footing faltered. She stumbled forward. He caught her at the shoulders.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, his deep voice a thick whisper.

  “’Tis nothing. A scrape on my knee is all.” She shivered as the heat from his hot hands fairly scorched the skin of her naked shoulders.

  He guided her back onto the bench, his face so indecently close to hers, she could feel the heat from his body on her cheeks, across her collarbone—everywhere.

  “Better?” he asked once she was settled.

  She nodded, watching him closely. His serious gaze dipped to her bodice and wavered there for a moment before rising up to drift across her neck, her cheek, her hair, and finally returning to her eyes. His perusal wasn’t disapproving nor a predatory leer, but more of a general inventory of her appearance. Still, the heat of embarrassment inflamed her skin. She must look simply horrid.

  “I must confess,” he replied, looking to the sky and squinting against the wind, “this is a peculiar spot to find one of the guests, considering the state of the weather. May I ask what you’re doing out here? That is—besides hurling objects at unsuspecting wanderers.”

  “Oh. I—I thought you were someone else.”

  “A walking bull’s-eye,” he suggested with half a smile. “You’ve quite impeccable aim. You’re a terribly brilliant archer, I presume.”

  “You’re half right. Just terrible, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

  She laughed. So did he—a deep masculine rumble that rolled through her like the thunder had earlier. The sound of their mixed voices made her feel warm and—strangely—giddy.

  Silence stretched between them and her smile fell away as she stared up into this man’s glorious face. His sun-kissed cheeks were taut, his strong jaw bearing the slightest shadow of bristles.

  A small voice inside her head warned of the dangers of talking to handsome men in moonlit gardens…alone.

  She stood abruptly. “If y-you’ll excuse me, m-my stepmother must be looking for me and I believe quite another storm is brewing…” Good Lord, the man was making her stutter.

  “Indeed. Mr. Ashton is looking for you as well.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea why,” she lied.

  His expression turned stern. “I believe you’ve been invited to Wolverest.”

  “How did you know my name?”

  “Pardon?”

  “When you first…you called me by my name after I threw the lemon.”

  “Was that what it was? I was quite sure it was some sort of rock.”

  “How did you know my name?” she urged once again, suppressing a smile.

  He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels as he studied her with a cool, assessing gaze. “It wasn’t hard to deduce, I’m afraid. You’ve made yourself quite memorable with the guests.”

  The solicitor had been shouting it across the ballroom and through the garden. She hadn’t realized until now the gravity of the scandal she had caused. Madelyn blushed, looking to the ground. Why did she always let her emotions provoke her actions?

  A charged silence fell between them. Words jumbled up in her mouth to fill the awkward silence with something, anything, but she bit her tongue, unwilling to fall victim to nervous babbling. The smooth edge of the bench brushed against the back of her knees, but to take a step forward would put her directly under his chin. He stood indecently close and she wondered if he was aware of it—if he did it on purpose to intimidate her.

  “Have you no desire to attend the Devine ball?” he asked, his tone mildly curious.

  “No,” she blurted out, right before good sense told her to keep her opinions to herself.

  His eyes narrowed in apparent disbelief. “Come now, doesn’t everyone want a chance to be a duchess, an exalted peeress of the realm?”

  “It is not a matter of whether or not one wants to be a duchess, but rather one of principle.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “And what principle would that be?”

  “That innocent young ladies should not consort with wolves,” she murmured.

  “Indeed?” He leaned in closer, an ebony lock falling over one eye. “And you believe the Devine men are both wolves, then?”

  Good Lord, he looked like a gentleman pirate. “No,” she continued in a whisper, ignoring a foreign stirring deep within her body. “It’s my opinion that the duke is the worse of the two.”

  “M—the duke?” He straightened, his eyes flashing with surprise. “And why is that?”

  “Arrogance.”

  “And you believe Lord Tristan is absolved from this sin? The lad has proclaimed he’ll not settle for a woman looking any less beautiful than the goddess of Venus herself.”

  She shrugged. “Simply a case of a younger sibling aping the disposition of the elder. The inclination is a common one, I’m afraid,” she added, nodding.

  His expression darkened as his intent gaze fairly fastened her to the bench. “Tell me, Miss Haywood, what makes the duke worse in your eyes?”

  “Only that this bride-hunt event, this game, is by his design.” She raised her chin. “Pray, sir, what manner of man thinks nothing of herding a group of young, harmless women to his private estate like we were nothing more than prized sheep? The nerve, I say.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I shan’t be surprised if the duke surveys them all with a monocle and gives them all an assessing pinch as they cross his threshold.”

  He nodded slowly, his mouth turned downward, as if actually contemplating the very thing. Regret zinged through Madelyn for painting such a vivid picture.

  He cleared his throat and offered calmly, “Perhaps he’s being creative.”

  “Or,” she countered, “perhaps he finds some absurd pleasure in having so much power, when any other man holding the same contest would be ostracized from society simply for being…for being…”

  “Yes?”

  “Cork-brained.”

  Her comment prompted a funny sort of sound from him, like a cough shrouding a chuckle.

  Madelyn’s heart hammered against her ribs. Talk of the duke’s impertinence had clearly unnerved her more than she would have liked to admit. Silence stretched before them as her pulse thudded back to a more sedate pace.

  Abr
uptly, he knelt down on one knee before her—as if about to offer his love in a heartfelt proposal. She stared, wide-eyed, at the top of his dark head as his assessing gaze slowly rose up the length of her body, finally meeting her blinking eyes.

  “Sir?”

  “May I?”

  “May you what?” She gulped.

  “Assess the injury to your knee?”

  “No!” She plopped back down on the bench, clamping her hands atop her knees. The motion sent stinging shards across her wounded palms. She cringed. He noticed.

  Gently, he turned her hands over in her lap, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said as he started to peel off her gloves with his long, tapered fingers.

  Madelyn gasped and pulled her hands away. “I assure you, I am well.” She adjusted her gloves. He waited silently for her to finish, then pulled out a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and softly placed it into her palm.

  “Come. Allow me to escort you to the kitchen entrance and have my staff take a look at you.”

  “Your staff?”

  He opened his mouth to respond, pausing for a moment, as if carefully selecting his words. “No, no. That would be Wolverest’s staff, of course. I’m afraid I never introduced myself…I’m Gabriel Devine.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps this was why his face had appeared familiar to her. Wolverest’s family name was Devine. And they were known for their dark, exotic looks. She blinked up at him. “Mr. Devine, is it?”

  “Hmm,” came his noncommittal reply. With his hand cupping her elbow, he assisted her to stand. “And perhaps you’ll want someone to attend to your hair before rejoining the party,” he drawled, his gaze flicking to the top of her head.

  Bringing up his hand, he froze, hesitating in the act of reaching for her hair. His features sharpened in a contemplative frown and he sighed, a strange mix of resignation and gruffness. It appeared he’d come to some sort of private decision. Tentatively, he looped one of her heavy curls around his finger and tried tucking it back atop her head. It resisted his urging and bounced back to the middle of her forehead. Apparently determined to bring it under control, he tried once again and ended up with the same result. For a moment his eyes twinkled warmly with the reflection of the moonlight.