The Bride Says No (11 page)

There had been a time in his life when he’d been treated as if he’d been of no consequence. Even now, there were times when he was dismissed as a by-blow, an afterthought. It rankled that the duke’s acknowledgement of his parentage opened doors that Blake felt should have been available to him on his own merit. He was Penevey’s oldest, damn it all.

And a bit of his need to prove himself had been behind his pursuit of Lady Tara.

But it was her sister that captured his imagination . . . in a way no other woman had before.

And he’d just met her.

Blake carefully returned to what he had started, setting up the chessboard, but with one difference. He placed the white queen in the middle of the game.

In the square confronting hers, he positioned the black king.

For a second, he debated moving the two pieces, then he decided to let them stay.

He would not act upon his attraction to Aileen Hamilton. He would marry her sister because that was what was
expected
of him. He’d fought to be considered a gentleman. A man’s reputation was the most fragile thing he owned.

And no woman should matter that much.

Especially one he’d just met.

Blake went to bed then. What else was there to do here in the wilderness of Scotland?

He expected to fall asleep. He was tired from travel and the weary contemplation of his future. He would have a beautiful wife, and his children, his
sons,
would be accepted everywhere. Besides, he always slept well, the result of a clear conscience.

Except this night, his peace was broken by fitful dreams of a pair of gray-blue eyes and the possibility of scandal.

A
rush of sunlight woke Blake.

He roared his disapproval and pulled the feather pillow over his eyes. “Shut the drapes,” he snapped.

“I wish I could, sir,” his valet, Jones, said, “but you are to go to church with the earl of Tay this morning.”

Church?

“I never go to church,” Blake mumbled into his pillow. His friends doubted if he would go to one for his own funeral.

It wasn’t that he had anything against honest prayer. He’d been known to indulge in it a time or two, usually in times of great crisis and with very choice words. But the discipline of rising in the morning to listen to a man who was probably no more holy than he carry on about “should and should nots” was not high on Blake’s preference of morning activities.

But then the word “
Tay
” registered in his still sleepy, and, yes, drink-befuddled memory. The first of his marriage banns was to be announced this morning.

He tossed the pillow aside and opened one eye. Jones was laying out the shaving equipment. The servant had also cracked open the window.

“What is that sound?” Blake asked.

“Birdsong, sir.”

“I’ve never heard it.”

“That is because you rarely leave London. The birds are quite happy this morning after our last few days of rain.”

“We have birds in London.”

“Pigeons and gulls, not songbirds.”

“So you say.”

“I do, sir. I like the sound of the thrush. Makes me content—”

“I should never have left the city,” Blake declared, overriding his valet. Jones’s talking of songbirds aggravated the foggy numbness in his brain. “Or drink with Tay.
Ever
. The man is a fish.” Blake had always believed he had a good head for spirits, but he could not keep up with Tay. He raised a hand to his pounding brow. “Good God.”

Jones was an independent-minded chap and rarely refrained from letting his opinions be known. “Are you praying already, sir?”

“More than you can imagine,” Blake muttered. “The last few days have been a bloody challenge. I’m pretending I’m a happy guest, but my patience is stretching thin.” Especially around Tara.

In London, Blake had had business to attend to, and he’d only dealt with Tara during social obligations. She’d been a pretty bauble who had flattered his standing amongst his contemporaries and made his half brother Arthur jealous. He’d never spent too much time with her alone.

He now realized that his betrothed was a bit of a child. She was like Penevey’s
legitimate
sons, with their slack jaws and vaunted sense of importance. They were coddled and cossetted and knew nothing of the world.

Ten minutes with one of them always made Blake thankful he’d grown up in the gutter. He’d learned in the hardest school any man could ever know how dangerous it was to waste time twiddling his thumbs or taking opportunity for granted. He valued purpose, something that Tara did not seem to possess—although that was untrue of her sister.

Lady Aileen was apparently a cornerstone in country society. She seemed to be out and about visiting her neighbors and seeing to sick crofters and the like. A true Lady Bountiful.

He admired her industry, although he suspected her real motive was to avoid him—something she would not be able to do today. She had to go to church. It would be expected, especially since her sister’s banns would be announced.

The thought of seeing her again was the impetus he needed to rise. He threw back the covers and put his legs over the edge of the bed to sit up. Immediately cold air hit his skin and he regretted the action.

“Would you shut the window?” he barked at Jones.

“Fresh air would be good for you, sir.”

“And why do you think that?” Blake pushed back his hair with his hands and vowed to not drink one more drop of whisky with that devil Lord Tay.

“Stirs the soul, sir. Stirs the soul.”

“I thought sermons did that,” Blake grumbled. He stood, naked. Yawning, he crossed over to the screen to see to his morning business.

“They might,” Jones was saying to him. “There is nothing like a rousing Calvinist screed read aloud to the uninitiated to vanquish dark and brooding natures.”

“Sounds delightful.” Blake pulled on a pair of breeches and turned himself over to Jones’s services.

Using soap scented with oriental spices, Jones lathered the rough beard covering Blake’s jaw before handing him a cup of strong tea from a tray on a side table. Letting the lather rest a moment, Jones prepared the razor.

Blake began to feel better, enough so that he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. “Jones? Did you lay out my dress coat for me to wear to church?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And knee breeches and pumps?” Blake continued, incredulous. Though this outfit was part of every gentleman’s wardrobe, Blake didn’t even know why he had these clothes, as he avoided any stuffy occasion where he’d be required to wear them.
Once.
He’d worn them once. “I won’t wear them.”

“It’s church, sir.”

“It’s a country church. In Scotland. Give me my boots.”

“We aren’t heathens, sir. You
dress
for church.”

“
We?
” Blake frowned. “You are Scottish, Jones?”

“
Aye,
I am,” Jones said, revealing a broad brogue. “Sir,” he offered as an afterthought.

“Why didn’t I know that?” Jones had been with Blake for over two years.

“You didn’t ask, sir.” Jones took the teacup and began applying the razor to Blake’s jaw, but Blake caught his wrist and stopped him.

“But you haven’t sounded Scottish, Jones, until this moment. And Jones is not Scots . . . is it?”

“A man can be a Jones and a Scot. There is no law against it. My father was a valet for an Edinburgh merchant, and I thought I’d find my fortune in London working for a fine gentleman. However, after several interviews I realized my accent was going against me.”

“I would have still hired you if I had known you were Scottish,” Blake said. “And we need to close the window. This country has a chill even in August.”

“Your blood is too thin, sir,” Jones said as he did as requested. “And you weren’t the one who hired me. Your father’s valet, Vernon, did. You and I settled in with each other after your brother Arthur gave me the sack.”

“Oh, yes,” Blake said, remembering. “I saved you.”

“Or
I
saved you. Your wardrobe made me shudder with horror.”

“It was a good bargain.” Blake leaned back in the chair to be shaved.

“It was, sir. The marquis still tosses valets aside as if we are nothing. It was providence that my path crossed yours.”

Blake chuckled. “Providence had nothing to do with it. You couldn’t keep your tongue quiet, and Arthur doesn’t like any opinion save his own.”

“While you, sir, barely pay attention to half of what I say.”

Blake’s newly shaved skin tingled from the soap as he laughed at the truth in Jones’s statement. But then he halted the shaving progress to say with complete seriousness, “It doesn’t seem right you hide who you are. I know. When Penevey picked me up off the streets, I had to make the decision whether to pretend to be someone else or be the man I am.”

“Once into the ruse, I couldn’t stop.”

“You stop now.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And because I am the man
I am,
” Blake continued, “I will not wear those pumps.”

But in the end, he did.

Jones insisted, and Blake was wise enough to listen to his valet, although his legs without boots felt, well, exposed.

“Your boots will be here for you when you return, sir,” Jones promised, reaching up to tie a proper knot in Blake’s starched neck cloth.

“So, tell me, Jones, what should I expect in church today?”

“Good people who are probably brimming with a curiosity about you, since Lady Tara is a local favorite.” Jones often provided information to Blake, as did any servant worth the pay he received. He inspected his handiwork with the knot as he said, “You will have the attention of everyone in the kirk. They will watch every twitch of the eye and lift of the finger.
Gloved
finger,” he emphasized, pointing to the kid gloves he’d laid out on the dresser. Blake hated wearing them perhaps more than he detested pumps.

Jones adjusted the knot a bit as he said, “If you think London is full of know-it-alls and busybodies, sir, wait until you experience country folk in Scotland.”

Blake frowned. “Do you believe they will know that Lady Tara ran away from the marriage?”

“I’ve been listening for that, sir. I’m certain Ingold and Mrs. Watson are aware, but if the other servants have an inkling, they have not breathed a word. They are very loyal here.”

“Even about Lady Aileen’s divorce?” Blake wanted to discover what he could about the incident.

“They are especially protective of her, sir.”

That was unusual. In London, a story like Aileen Hamilton’s would have been common gossip amongst the servants.

Blake held out his arms so that Jones could help him into his dark blue dress coat. “Keep listening. I’m interested in that regard.”

His order was met by an uncharacteristic beat of silence, then Jones said, “Are you still going to continue with this farce of a marriage, sir?”

“I have no choice.”

“There is always a choice, sir.”

Blake smiled grimly. His man did not understand. “Not with any semblance of honor.”

“Is your honor more important than having a wife who gives you comfort and sees to your needs?” Jones asked, offering Blake the gloves.

“A man’s word is his bond.” Of all the dictums he’d schooled himself on in his quest to become a “gentleman,” this one rang truest. Even the scoundrels, pickpockets, and whores who had been a part of his early childhood understood a code of honor.

“Then perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to ask more questions about Lady Tara’s sister?” Jones suggested.

Blake bristled at the hint of disapproval, even while silently acknowledging Jones was correct. He should cool his interest in Lady Aileen. He should, but not quite yet.

Instead of responding, he took a bite of the bun Jones had included on the morning tray and finished the tea he had started while dressing. From outside the window, he heard the sound of horses being brought around. “I must go.” He left the room, but Jones’s admonishment lingered in his mind.

Penevey had said he needed a wife, and Blake had agreed with him. But finding a young woman from a suitable family had been difficult. In spite of the wealth he had created, the reputation he had established, and the duke’s recognition of him . . . most doting parents did not find him completely acceptable for their precious daughters—not if they could land a young man with a less dubious history. The world might admire a self-made man, but the
ton
never would. They lauded tradition.

And Tara, too, had liabilities. For all her celebrated beauty, her father’s drinking, womanizing, and general reckless behavior, compounded with the scandal of her sister’s divorce, had seen her crossed off many a gentleman’s list for a wife—at least from their parents’ perspectives.

And Blake was no fool. He knew Penevey had approached him about marrying Tara Davidson because the duke wanted to save his heir from her. Arthur had been making an embarrassment of himself in his pursuit of Tara. She was the one thing Arthur appeared to want with a dedicated enthusiasm.

Considering all the mean-spirited pranks Arthur and his ilk had visited upon Blake when they had been in school together, Blake had taken great satisfaction in winning the lady.

And he promised himself that in spite of how silly he found Tara, he would be a good husband to her. This marriage would give his children legitimate bloodlines and social standing. It had already gained him great approval from Penevey, a man of whom he was never certain yet someone he wanted to please, as all sons, even bastards, wished to do.

God, he was even going to church
.

“Ah, there you are, Stephens,” the earl of Tay greeted him. The earl was standing in the front hall, his hat on his head. He wore knee breeches and pumps, and Blake silently prayed he cut a better figure in the clothes than the earl. “I was afraid I needed to send Ingold for you. The ladies are already tucked into the coach.”

The
ladies
. That meant Lady Aileen.

Blake’s step picked up its pace. He walked out the front door to the waiting vehicle.

The coach had a row of seats facing each other. Lady Aileen sat on one side; Tara on the other.