At the Bride Hunt Ball Read online

  Twenty minutes later Madelyn sat on the edge of her bed in the guest wing of the castle. With a heavy sigh, she stared at the few gowns she had folded to be packed away for travel, though she knew she couldn’t depart Wolverest just yet. Not with the ball tomorrow evening. She would never leave Charlotte to fend for herself now.

  The door to her bedchamber creaked then, and she knew someone had entered unannounced. Looking up, she saw her stepmother in the doorway, arms crossed over her narrow chest, her thin lips turned down at the corners like those of a condescending monarch.

  “You’ve been crying,” Priscilla said sharply, stepping into the room.

  Madelyn pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. Although she hadn’t shed a tear for nearly ten minutes, she knew that her face must show the signs of recent crying.

  “I’ll come straight to the point,” Priscilla said, coming to a halt before her. “What, exactly, has transpired? And do not bother being obtuse—I saw the two of you go off alone and now I find you here, weeping like a babe.”

  There was no sense contradicting her, but Priscilla had never been the sort of person she could confide in. Her stepmother had always dismissed her concerns and wishes as if she were no more significant than a pesky fly. So she sat there and stared at her lap.

  “You’ll tell me what’s happened and you’ll tell me now,” Priscilla snapped.

  “He proposed,” Madelyn said in a small voice, dreading her stepmother’s reaction to her news.

  “Proposed! Dear Lord! Madelyn, I had always hoped, dreamed even.” Priscilla clutched her arms around herself and twirled in a circle. “And it is better than I ever imagined. A duke! Oh, I shall want for nothing more!”

  “I refused,” Madelyn replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Priscilla froze at her words. “What? Y-You refused?”

  But Madelyn did not explain. How could someone like her stepmother ever understand why she couldn’t marry Gabriel?

  “You are completely mad,” Priscilla stated, eyes wide with disbelief and anger.

  “I am not mad,” Madelyn managed calmly. “I simply desire to marry a man who loves me just the way I am.”

  “Just the way you are!” Priscilla laughed bitterly. “Who could love a table with uneven legs, a deck of cards that counts short, a book missing its last page.”

  Madelyn swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She knew that defending herself would only lead to more scathing laughter.

  Priscilla shook her head in disapproval. “What a waste. What a damn shameful creature.” She looked away from her, wringing her hands together in thought. “All right, then,” she said after taking a deep breath. “I think we still have time. Surely, he could be cajoled into thinking you were simply being coy. Perhaps I could persuade him into asking again.”

  “No.”

  It was such a simple word to be thrown between them, but Madelyn said it with such resolute power, Priscilla reared back as if slapped. However, true to form, the baroness bounced back in mere seconds, rounding on Madelyn until her nose was a scant inch from her own. “When I first met you, all weepy and mumbling over the loss of your mother, I saw potential. I knew you could be an asset to me. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered you to be an ungrateful miss with an inclination for ungainliness, and now abject stupidity! This opportunity fell into our lap and you let it be all for naught!”

  Suddenly, Madelyn felt like a little girl again. She bit her lip as uncertainty took over.

  Losing her mother at eight years of age left a fathomless hole in her heart. When her father remarried after a year of mourning, she had sought unconditional acceptance and love from a new stepmother whose coldness seared her to the quick. It only took two months for her to realize she’d never please the oft-dissatisfied woman. But that didn’t make the pain go away, nor shrink the size of the hole left behind from her mother.

  “Did you ever love me?” Madelyn blurted out the question.

  Taking a step back, Priscilla’s eyes narrowed as she contemplated the question. When she spoke, her words were cool and delivered with stinging satisfaction. “I didn’t even love your father.”

  The sob aching in Madelyn’s chest died on a wave of indignation. “Then why did you take me in? The burden wasn’t yours. You didn’t have to be my guardian.”

  Priscilla shrugged. “Your father’s will stipulated that if I raised you, fed you, and clothed you until you reached the age of twenty-one or were married, whichever came first, I would receive three thousand pounds more a year. So naturally…”

  “Naturally,” Madelyn said, baffled by her stepmother’s bluntness.

  “And I suppose now is as good time as any to tell you about Willowbrooke,” Priscilla continued with a smug lift of her chin.

  “Yes, about the cottage…” Madelyn sat straighter. “As it would be safe to assume you’ll not allow me to reside there any longer since I failed your marriage mission, I should like to take a ride there before we head back to London.”

  Priscilla threw her a scornful glare from over her shoulder as she turned and headed out of the room. “There’s no need.”

  “I do realize your family most probably cleared the home out when it fell into your hands,” Madelyn said, “but I’d like to take a look for myself. I trust Mr. and Mrs. White are still the caretakers.”

  Reaching the door, Priscilla gave a careless shrug. “I’ve absolutely no idea. You see, I just happened to sell the dratted thing this very morning.”

  Madelyn bolted to her feet. “You what?”

  “Sold it, dear.” Priscilla smiled tightly.

  Shaking with fury now, Madelyn’s fists tightened at her sides. “You’re lying.”

  “No, child.” Priscilla shook her head in mock sympathy. “It seems there was a lot of interest in that unoccupied crumbling heap. With Mr. Ashton’s help, it was snapped up this very morning for thrice its value.”

  And with that, Lady Haywood swirled out of the room, nose tilted in the air, leaving Madelyn to shake violently as the strain of the events of the past hour threatened to topple her and render her a pitiful puddle of tears.

  Chapter 19

  The Bride Hunt Ball

  “So tell me,” Charlotte murmured from behind her glass of lemonade, “can you tell I stuffed padding into my bodice?”

  Mid-swallow, Madelyn sputtered and coughed. They stood at the refreshment table, the twirling, weaving couples of a quadrille at their backs. Dabbing her mouth with the corner of a linen napkin, she finished clearing her throat while giving an appreciative nod as a passing gentleman patted her gently between the shoulder blades.

  “I’m fine now, thank you,” she rasped. She waited until the man and his lady threaded into their place in the dance before turning back to Charlotte.

  “Well,” her friend prodded. “Can you tell?”

  Madelyn gave the enormous yet overstuffed ballroom one quick assessing sweep of her gaze to make certain no one was paying close attention to them, then quickly reviewed the state of Charlotte’s bodice. “Ah…no, not really. But only if the one standing before you is your exact height—as I am, dear. Should anyone be taller than you and in possession of a keen eye…say someone like Lord Tristan, then all he’d have to do is look to your unnaturally ample bosom to discern the wads of silk stuffed inside.”

  “Oh,” Charlotte replied, her voice small. Looking down at herself, she brushed imaginary wrinkles out of her pale pink skirts. And then with a tiny shake of her head, her spirit became buoyant once again. “I guess I shall have to go to the retiring room to fix it, as I have promised the next dance to Lord Tristan.”

  Madelyn couldn’t help but smile. This evening, Charlotte was bursting with a blend of enthusiasm akin to that of a bride on the eve of her wedding day. How it would pain her to see her friend’s mood crushed if Tristan should break her heart.

  He was to pick his bride at midnight, presenting her with a hothouse bouquet of red roses. Madelyn gritted her teeth. I
t had to be nearly midnight now. And she had a sinking feeling the woman his lordship would chose would be Harriet Beauchamp. Madelyn had expressed her suspicions to Charlotte just that evening while they dressed for the ball, but her friend’s hopes remained ever resilient.

  At least she was here for Charlotte should her friend need a shoulder to cry on or a patient listener to hear her woes. It was all she could do to repay Charlotte for listening to her drone on and on about Gabriel last night.

  In truth, Madelyn hadn’t wanted to attend the ball. She’d have much preferred to hide away in her assigned room until it was time for them to depart for London. But Charlotte needed her, and she wouldn’t dream of not being here for her friend. She reminded herself that it was one of the very reasons she decided to come to Wolverest in the first place.

  So Madelyn continued to sip her lemonade—though her throat yet burned from swallowing the wrong way—and took delicate care to look about the room without appearing to be desperately searching for a glimpse of Gabriel.

  At the top of the room sat the orchestra. Great swaths of flowing ivory hung from the ceiling, partially surrounding the ensemble and giving the room an ethereal beauty. Amplifying this ambience was the wall of French doors, which were all left wide open. The wafts of cool air billowed the fabric around the orchestra and made the hundreds of beeswax sconces flicker and nearly wink out, only to surge with new life once the breeze settled down once again.

  He was here; she could feel it. Goose pimples ran down her arms and she shivered, thinking of the heat that would bloom within her just from one glance from Gabriel.

  “By the way,” Charlotte said, breaking through Madelyn’s pondering, “do you realize we’ve been in this ballroom for nearly three hours and haven’t seen a glimpse of your duke?”

  Madelyn bent to place her empty glass on the refreshment table. “He’s not my duke, Lottie. And please lower your voice,” she gently pleaded. “Just because you can’t see anyone’s faces, doesn‘t mean they can’t hear you. You should’ve worn your spectacles. I’m worried you’ll trip.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I shall employ extra care and promise to…”

  As Charlotte’s voice trailed off, Madelyn looked up to see her friend in the midst of a hard squint just off her right shoulder.

  “What is it?” Madelyn asked, without turning in that direction. “Or rather, who is it?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s undeniably a man. Tall, a definite swagger, and he’s coming straight this way.”

  Could it be Gabriel? Madelyn had barely enough time to contemplate if it was hope she was feeling or dread, when she felt the unmistakable sensation of a virile, warm male standing behind her.

  She spun around and found herself staring up into the amber-flecked eyes of Lord Rothbury. Her shoulders visibly slumped.

  “Well, now. Was that with relief,” the earl drawled, stepping between the ladies, “or disappointment that it is I who now stands before you?”

  Madelyn’s mouth opened, then shut. She had no idea what to say that wouldn’t insult him or give herself away.

  Thankfully, he grinned and gave his head a slight shake, silently letting her know he wasn’t expecting an answer. He turned to Charlotte.

  “Miss Greene,” he replied, bending over her gloved hand in greeting. “Might I say how lovely—” And then he stopped, his polite smile frozen as his sharp gaze centered, blinked, and then refocused on Charlotte’s bodice. Slowly, he rose up to his full height. He cleared his throat. “Ah…er…your loveliness is quite…bountiful this evening,” he replied, though his lips twitched with concealed amusement.

  “Why, thank you,” Charlotte murmured distractedly, dipping into a quick curtsy. Her eyes weren’t on him, but squinting at some point behind him. The lengthy quadrille was finally coming to an end, Madelyn surmised, and Charlotte would need to go off and fix her gown before Tristan came to claim his dance.

  “If you’ll excuse me. There’s something important I must attend to without delay,” she said, smiling pointedly at Madelyn. “My lord.”

  “Of course,” Rothbury murmured.

  Charlotte dipped into a shallow curtsy once again, and Rothbury bowed. And then she was gone, heading in the direction of the ladies’ retiring room, which, much to Madelyn’s dismay, left her completely alone with the sinful earl.

  With one winged brow raised, he followed her friend’s departure until she could no longer be seen. “It’ll be a miracle if she manages to make it across the ballroom and back without slamming into a marble column.” He turned his unshakable predatory gaze back to Madelyn. When he spoke, his voice dripped with a curious deception. “I’ve set in motion a plan to aid you in your quest.”

  Madelyn’s brow furrowed. “Pray, do not talk in riddles. I must attend to Miss Greene. What quest?”

  “For the duke.”

  Her heart sank and she hoped her emotions couldn’t be read in her eyes. “I do not have a quest for the duke.”

  “Ah, but you do,” he drawled. “Only, I’ve changed my mind.”

  Her irritation mounting, Madelyn nearly growled. She had no idea why, but this man always had this effect on her. “Changed your mind about what?”

  “Telling you.”

  “Normally, I would express my disappointment,” she said through a tight smile, “but as I have no idea as to what on earth you’re talking about, I shall simply have to be patient.”

  “Good. Let us be off, then,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his arm. When she tried pulling free, he pressed his hand atop hers, trapping her. She’d have to yank hard to loose herself from his hold now, and that would draw unwanted attention.

  “I’m wondering if you’ll take a turn about the room with me, Miss Haywood,” he said, not waiting for her reply. “I imagine these doors will lead us directly to the rose garden. And I do so love a stroll in a garden at midnight, don’t you?”

  Her heart started thundering in her ears. She didn’t know what the earl was up to, but her body responded as if he’d just told her she was going to debtor’s prison.

  “What are you doing?” Madelyn asked, her voice husky with fear.

  “Making you a duchess.”

  Taller than just about everyone in the ballroom, Gabriel stood with his back to the open French doors, the cool air wafting across his back and matching his mood. Studiously, he stared at Madelyn as she conversed with Miss Greene. Madelyn was looking for him. He knew it. Oh, she did a fairly good job of feigning an interest in Rosalind’s decorations, but he didn’t miss how her eyes skimmed through the crowd every now and then.

  Bloody hell, she looked amazing. Her ball gown was of light blue satin with an embroidered band of white at her hem that matched the silk band under her breasts, which of course drew his appreciative attention. Her dark red locks were swept into an intricate coiffure, with dark cherry tendrils curling on the top and cascading down the back of her head. He flexed his hand. Damn, how he longed for the silky feel of her hair in his hands, across his bare chest.

  But then he realized it didn’t matter what she wore this night, or any evening, for that matter. He wanted her whether every damn curl sat in place or if it all came tumbling down. Actually, he preferred her imperfect, spontaneous, giggling and outspoken. That was the very reason he fell in love with her in the first place. And he was a stupid ass for making her believe he’d want to change her once they married.

  “Ah-hem.”

  Someone cleared their throat to his left.

  “Ah-hem!”

  His nostrils flared as the pungent odor of sour wine drifted over to him. He heard a sound. A funny sort of sound like that of a belch in someone’s throat. He blinked as an unsteady woman shuffled her way in front of him, the ostrich plume in her turban effectively blocking his view of Madelyn.

  He scowled. “Lady Beauchamp.”

  She gave him a wobbly smile. In her drunken mind’s eye, Gabriel imagined she thought it a particularly charming one.


  “Your Grace.” She held out her hand, and he had no choice but to bend over it like the gentleman he was brought up to be.

  She started to curtsy at the same time but was so unsteady that Gabriel supported her by her elbow so she wouldn’t fall down.

  “I’ve come to congratulate you,” she exclaimed, opening her fan and waving it rapidly in front of her face.

  “And that would be for…”

  “The upcoming nuptials, you silly man.”

  “Ah,” Gabriel said, taking a step backward. Lord, her breath was foul. “And I thank you on Tristan’s behalf.”

  “No, no, no,” she said, punctuating each word with a swat at his chest. “I’ve heard it on confidence, no. With confidence. No, that’s not what I mean to say.” She hiccupped. “What was I saying anyway, good man?”

  “Nuptials,” Gabriel supplied.

  “Oh yes.” She smiled. “My, you’re a handsome fellow. Were I twenty years younger, I’d fancy you for myself. Got the look of pirate in you.” She winked. “All devilish good looks and a swagger to boot. Too bad you’re always scowling.”

  “Lady Beauchamp, please,” he implored, his deep tenor barely above a growl.

  “Oh, all right, then. What good could come from rousing your ire?” She paused, wetting her lips as if savoring the juicy tidbit of gossip she was about to relate. “I’ve heard it on good authority that Lord Rothbury and Miss Haywood are to be wed. Engaged this very afternoon. Can you believe it?”

  For a second it felt as if his heart had stopped beating. But then Gabriel’s brow furrowed deeper, if that was at all possible. He had followed this woman’s direction once before, when he was told a guest wandered in the darkened corridor, and look what a misunderstanding that turned out to be. Besides, it was obvious that the woman had fairly marinated herself in an abundance of spirits.

  “You must be mistaken, Viscountess,” he said.

  “Oh no,” she said, looking appalled at the very idea. “I heard it from the earl’s very lips. To think that Miss Haywood snared herself an earl. Well, grasp him and hold on for dear life, is what the girl should do. It‘s not every day someone with her lowly connections should marry so well.”