The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy) (42 page)

Weston House

Dear Sarah,

Please read the enclosed note, then give it to my brother at a time you deem appropriate. I am afraid to do it.

I love you. Please forgive me.

Charlotte

Tuesday, 10 May
1877

Weston House

Dear Nicholas,

This note is to inform you that I am a very wretched, ungrateful sister, but Rodney and I have reached the end of our patience with Lady Pratt. Tonight she insisted you, Aurora, and Melanie be barred from attending the wedding, despite the fact that Gillian, Flora, and Robyn all insisted that they could not detect skunk odor on you when their "fresh" noses arrived from Scotland this morning. My future mother-in-law threatened to make a scene, and I find I must preempt her.

Nicholas, Rodney and I have eloped. Please make our excuses to our wedding guests.

Love,

Your wicked sister Charlotte

Sarah sat on her bed in her bedchamber, laughing, the letter from Charlotte in her hand. So much for the theme of a Good Luck Wedding. Then again, as long as Charlotte's wedding day was free of Dragon Lady Pratt, perhaps it would be a good luck wedding after all.

She glanced at the mantel clock. Seven a.m. She should probably take Nick the note immediately—she'd heard him go downstairs almost an hour ago now—but she couldn't bring herself to go to him. The doors between them had been shut both literally and figuratively for the past week.

And besides, his solicitor might be with him now. Walking in on that particular meeting would be far too humiliating.

She and her husband had barely spoken over the past week. For the first couple of days, he stayed away from Weston House entirely as he and Melanie and Aurora made the trip out to the country house for repeated odor-treatment baths and long days spent in pursuits involving fresh air and sunshine. When they returned for his appointment at the palace, the fragrance of skunk had faded from his skin, but the anger radiating from his body remained just as strong as ever.

It broke her heart. He'd never before been angry with her, not like this. As was so often the case, she hadn't realized how much she valued his admiration and respect until she'd lost it.

Knock knock knock.
At the chamber separating her bedchamber from their shared sitting room, Nick spoke. "Sarah, would you join me in the sitting room please?"

Her stomach sank. He sounded serious and grim. Maybe he'd already heard about Charlotte's running off "I'll be right there."

She slipped on her dressing gown and tucked Charlotte's letter into her pocket. In the sitting room, Nick stood staring out the window into the garden. He didn't turn when she entered, only said, "The rain clouds are clearing. Charlotte will have a beautiful day for her wedding."

"Hmm," she responded as she said to herself,
Not necessarily
. Sarah suspected the young lovers had left London to marry. The farther away from Lady Pratt the better.

While Sarah searched for a way to break the news of Charlotte's elopement, Nick took the matter from her hands by introducing the subject she'd done her best to ignore. "The papers are on your desk awaiting your signature, Sarah."

Now he turned and met her gaze, his expression one of properly cool British detachment.

Sarah blinked. It took a concentrated effort not to fall backward a step. She'd seen him turn that chilly, dispassionate look on a number of people in the past, but never on herself. Never on her or the girls or anyone he cared about. Now, standing in the middle of the sitting room, faced with Nick's indifference, Sarah felt as if she'd been torn in half.

She'd lost him.

Blindly she turned toward the desk and the sheaf of papers lying atop it. "Thank you," she said softly, the polite response automatic but having nothing to do with the emotions surging through her like a storm.

He nodded once. "I am told you plan to depart this evening."

"Yes. On the Manchester."

"I'm familiar with the
Manchester.
It's a nice ship. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to leave early for St. George's. I promised Lady Pratt I would speak with Reverend Tomlinson personally concerning the homily he has planned for the service. I understand you intend to see to Charlotte this morning?"

"Hmm..." she murmured, hoping he'd take it as an assent. She didn't want to he to him, and she doubted she could say a word without bursting into tears.

"Very well, then. I will see you at the church." Nick then turned to leave, hesitating only when he reached the doorway. "I doubt we'll have the opportunity to speak privately again, Sarah. I want you to know..." He stopped and took a deep breath, visibly bracing himself "I wish you a safe journey, lass. In your travels and in your life."

With that, Nicholas, Lord Weston, left her.

Sarah stumbled to the writing desk and sank into the chair. The annulment papers lay on the surface like a serpent waiting to strike. Cautiously she reached out and with her index finger shuffled aside the pages until she revealed the signature page. Lines indicated a space for her signature and that of her husband's. Both were blank.

He wanted her to sign first. Sarah's stomach rolled, got a hard knot in it. Her breaths came in shallow pants.

As she reached for a pen, she spied her treasure tin and pictured the contents within. Her rock collection. The smooth, amber-colored stone that symbolized their first kiss. The milky piece of quartz he'd given her on their wedding day. The uncut rubies he'd gathered for her in the mountains of Afghanistan.

Sarah slowly pulled the box closer and gently lifted the lid. The stones inside were more beautiful to her than a chest full of glittering gems.

She removed one of the rubies and held it cradled in the palm of her hand. She stroked a finger across its rough pink ridges and recalled the words he had written in the Pillow Book:

You lay next to me, lost in sleep, vulnerable. Trusting.

Trusting me.

It was a gift more valuable than gold.

She closed her hand, gripped the rock tightly.

I would never do anything to damage such a precious offering.

Remember that, Sarah. Never forget.

Sarah licked her lips. The sensation of standing on the edge of a precipice propelled her to her feet. Blindly she picked up the treasure tin and returned the stone. Then with the box in one hand and the annulment papers in the other, she carried them back to her bedroom. There, she tossed her burdens in the center of her bed. The rock tin spilled and stones tumbled out, the uncut rubies rolling to he atop the annulment decree.

Sarah reached into the bedside table for the leather-bound tome buried at the bottom of the drawer. She opened the Pillow Book and flipped the pages until she found the particular letter she sought. Nick's bold handwriting stretched across the parchment-colored page.

Look at the stones, lass. They are pretty as they are, but I want you to imagine the beauty that lies beneath the surface. Beauty and sparkle and fire. It's there, waiting for you.

You simply must be brave enough to make the first cut.

"'It's there, waiting for you,'" she read again, aloud." 'You simply must be brave enough to make the first cut.'"

Now her knees went a bit weak. Trust and courage. That's what he truly asked of her. Trust and courage.

Her gaze shifted to the legal decree and the promises of beauty lying atop it. She hugged the Pillow Book close to her chest and used her husband's favorite invective. "Damnation, Sarah. As they say in Texas, you have been dumb as a box of rocks."

Then Sarah, Lady Weston, whipped the annulment decree off the bed and ripped it over and over and over again, the tear of paper music to her ears. Laughing, she flung the tiny pieces into the air so that they drifted down around her like snow-flakes.

Then, taking a pen, she climbed into the middle of her bed, sat cross-legged, opened the Pillow Book, and began to write.

* * *

Nick rode to the church in a foul humor. He'd had all he wanted of weddings and marriages and women in general. One woman in particular. One woman who was leaving him today.

Damnation, Sarah. How am I going to live without you?

At St. George's, Nick met with the vicar as promised, then pulled up a chair next to the tomb of a courtier of Elizabeth I, propped his feet on the stone effigy, and began a one-sided conversation about the perversity of women. He passed the time in this manner, regretting his lack of whisky, until Trace McBride sauntered up and nodded. "Morning, Weston. Jenny asked me to track you down and point out that wedding guests are beginning to arrive. They're waiting for you in the vicar's office."

"Hmmph." Nick dropped his feet from the tomb and rose. "Good. I'm ready to get this nonsense over with. I trust Charlotte's groom is here and ready?"

The Texan pursed his lips. "Lord Pratt is definitely ready to say his vows."

Nick nodded and made his way to the office, stopping to shake a hand or two with a wedding guest along the way. To his surprise, neither the vicar nor any of his sisters were in the room when he arrived. Nick frowned. He'd thought this was where he was to meet Charlotte to escort her down the aisle.

Glancing around the room, he spied a boutonniere—a cleverly constructed white rose and four-leaf clover affair—he assumed was meant for him. It was only when he went to affix it to his jacket that he realized just what the flower lay upon. A book, bound in burgundy leather with gold filigree.

The Pillow Book.

Nick's heart began to pound.

He sucked in a breath. Propping a hip against the vicar's desk, he picked up the Pillow Book and flipped through the pages. When he reached the final entry, he found a small blue velvet bag tucked between the pages. He opened the envelope and emptied its contents into the palm of his hand.

It was a teardrop of a ruby partially cut, half of it shining and brilliant and beautiful. The rest of the gem was rough and waiting. His heart was in his throat as he dropped his gaze to the Pillow Book and began to read.

My dearest Nick,

While lying in my bed—in my lonely bed—I had the most marvelous dream. May I tell you about it?

I was seated at a workbench in a lapidary's shop. Before me lay a rock—an untouched stone—and I had never seen another like it. My rock wasn't formed of solid minerals or crystals, but rather of a hard lump of fear born in the fires of misunderstanding, inexperience, and imagination..

It was an ugly rock, Nick. My gaze shied away from it time and time again as I worked with other, prettier stones. I was content to leave the unsightly rock on the bench just beyond my immediate sight.

Then one day you came into the shop and offered a kingdom of dreams in exchange for the finest ruby in the land. I looked at the ugly rock and sensed that something sparkling, beautiful, and alive was trapped inside it, waiting to be freed. I knew that all I needed to do was make that first cut and you would make all my dreams come true.

I was afraid. I was afraid to trust—not you, never you, but my own talent. I was afraid to pick up the chisel and put blade to stone.

You left, and I was alone with the sad little rock. I stared at it hard, for the first time in years, and I could see the dream within it.

Your voice whispered to me in my mind, my heart, my soul. You urged me, encouraged me. Breathed your strength into me.

I picked up the chisel, Nick, and I made the first cut. Now, I ask for your help to finish the work.

I know it's been slow in coming, but I have come to the realization that Pliny the Elder knew of what he spoke when he said, Home is where the heart is.

My heart has found a home here on this side of the Atlantic.

My heart has found a home with you. Will you allow me to stay? Will you take me to your bed and seal the promise between us? I'm ready, Nick. I'm finally ready.

With love, Sarah, your wife

The Pillow Book slipped from Nick's fingers and fell to the floor with a thud. He stared at it numbly, his thoughts in a daze, then instinctively retrieved it and returned it gently to the desk.

Relief rolled over him in waves. He was fairly certain he would not have allowed her to board that ship, and while the thought of locking her in his bedchamber had a certain appeal, the battle would have been ugly.

A smile played at the corners of his mouth as the gray fog of his mood lifted. While the two of them still had one particular hurdle to jump, Nick was confident in his lovemaking skills. In fact, he quite looked forward to putting them to the test.

He sank into a fantasy about Sarah and rubies and a bed the size of Loch Rowanclere. How long he was lost in the illusion he wasn't certain, but it seemed like just a few minutes before he realized Trace McBride stood in the doorway calling his name. "Weston? Weston!"