Rule's Bride (2 page)

His gaze ran over the few rows of seats filled by Griffin's friends and family, an intimate gathering that would have been a spectacular affair if Violet were older and the wedding not a hurried event that was only a means to an end.

He wondered how many people in attendance knew the circumstances of the wedding and thought that Griff, as Rule was now supposed to call him, had probably spoken to most of them and explained the situation. Rule
thought the majority would sympathize with a dying father's desire to ensure his only child's future and agree with his decision.

At the top of the steps leading down from the terrace, Griffin extended his arm and Violet rested a white-gloved hand on the sleeve of his satin-lapelled, black broadcloth tailcoat. She was even more petite than he had realized, and earlier he had noticed that her eyes were a pretty leaf-green. There was a sprinkling of freckles on her nose, he had observed as he had proposed, very gallantly, on bended knee in the drawing room in front of her father.

She was little more than a child and part of him rebelled at the notion of making her his wife, even in name only. He fought an urge to turn and run, board the fastest ship he could find back to England. But the die had been cast, the future laid out for him like a juicy piece of meat, and he had been unable to resist.

By the end of the ceremony, he would be on his way to becoming an extremely wealthy man. In the meantime, until the dismal occasion of his father-in-law's passing, Rule would be employed at a lavish salary as head of the London branch of Griffin Manufacturing and live in high style in the city.

The organ began to play the wedding march, returning his attention to the moment. Walking next to her father, Violet managed a half-hearted smile and started down the aisle to where he stood waiting. Rule reminded himself he wouldn't truly be a husband for at least several years, wouldn't have to face that sort of responsibility until he was ready.

Pasting on a smile he hoped looked sincere, he thought of the future he was securing for himself, the fulfillment of the promise he had made his father, and prepared to greet his bride.

 

Violet kept the smile fixed on her face as she made her way down the aisle. Only close family and a few intimate friends were in attendance. Quite enough for Violet, who just wanted this day to end. On the morrow, Rule would sail for London and her life would return to normal. At least for a while.

She refused to think of the months ahead and the terrible fate awaiting her father. Instead, she focused her attention on the man she would marry. Rule gave her an encouraging smile and her heartbeat quickened, began a steady thrumming inside her chest. Good heavens, he was handsome! She had never seen a man with eyes so blue and fringed with a double row of thick black lashes. She had never seen more beautiful lips, full and pleasingly curved. Winged black brows formed a faultless arch over each of his magnificent eyes, his nose was straight, and his smile flashed an even row of perfect white teeth.

When she reached his side, he took her trembling hand in his larger, warmer one, and his smile widened, carving dimples into his cheeks. Goodness, she had never seen a face assembled with such perfection.

And he was going to be her husband!

The thought made her knees start to tremble. As her father handed her into Rule's care, she stiffened her spine and told herself she was doing this because her father wished it, but deep down she wasn't completely sure.

For long minutes she stood there rigidly as the minister performed the marriage ceremony. Rule repeated his vows and she hers, and then it was over and he bent and kissed her cheek.

Violet suppressed a flicker of disappointment. She had never been kissed. She thought she deserved at least that much from the man who was now her husband.

“Well, Mrs. Dewar,” he whispered softly, his warm breath feathering goose bumps across her skin, “how does it feel to be married?”

She looked up at him. “So far I have no idea. What about you?”

Rule laughed, a deep, rich, musical baritone. Of course his laughter would be perfect, just like the rest of him.

“You're exactly right—I haven't a clue, either. I don't feel the slightest bit different.”

“Maybe it takes a while.”

He smiled, seemed to relax. “Perhaps.” She loved his accent. It fit so well with his immaculately tailored clothes, expensive leather shoes and snowy cravat.

“I believe your family has planned a wedding celebration. Perhaps now that the worst is over, we'll be able to actually eat.”

Violet laughed. She hadn't expected that. That he would be able to make her laugh. It made him seem less formidable, more approachable. “I'm starving. I was afraid to eat anything earlier. I wasn't sure I would be able to keep it down.”

He smiled. “Exactly so.” He continued to smile, and she thought,
Could this beautiful man actually be my husband?
But as he took her hand and placed it on the sleeve of his coat, she knew that it was so.

Weaving their way through a small barrage of well-wishers, they made their way from the garden back inside the house. Rule kept her close at his side and she appreciated his effort to play the role of dutiful husband. As the afternoon progressed, she told herself that everything would work out. That her father's judgment had never proved wrong before and she should trust that judgment now.

The hours seemed to have no end but finally the guests departed, all except Rule, her father and Aunt Harriet, her
mother's sister and one of Violet's few close relatives. As she stood next to Rule and the small group who remained, a wave of exhaustion hit her and she swayed on her feet.

“Are you all right?” Rule asked, his hand going to her waist to steady her.

Violet managed to smile. “I'm fine. A little tired, perhaps.”

He glanced at the clock above the marble mantel in the drawing room. “The others have mostly gone and I'm afraid it's time for me to leave, as well. I have some packing to finish before I head down to the ship.”

Violet felt torn.

She was married, but her husband was leaving. She wasn't sure when she would see him again.

On the other hand, she wasn't ready to be a wife and she wasn't sure how long it would take before she would be.

“We'll walk you out to your carriage,” her father said, and the group made its way in that direction, ending up outside on the wide front veranda.

“Have a safe voyage,” Violet said, not sure what sort of farewell was appropriate under the circumstances.

Rule bowed over her hand, lightly pressed his lips against the back, and she could feel his warm breath through her glove. “Goodbye, Violet.”

She watched him descend the steps and climb into his carriage, then, as if he had never been there, he was gone.

Her father's hand settled gently on her shoulder. “He'll be good to you, dearest. He has given me his word he will see to your every need.”

She only nodded.
What about love?
she thought. The word had never entered her mind until that very moment and certainly wasn't part of any conversation she'd had with her father. Love wasn't a necessary part of marriage, she knew, and yet…

For some strange reason, as she watched Rule's carriage depart, a lump formed in her throat.

“Rule will make you a very good husband,” her father confirmed. “When the time is right.”

“I'm—I'm sure he will.” She watched Rule's carriage disappear through the massive iron gates that bore the tall, golden image of a griffin—the body of a lion and the wings of an eagle—and felt oddly depressed.

“Come inside, sweetheart,” said her aunt Harriet, a silver-haired woman in her fifties with an unshakable loyalty to her and her father. “You must be tired after such a trying day.”

Violet just nodded. She felt drained and strangely bereft. She had a husband who wasn't there and soon her father would also be gone.

As they crossed the front porch and went inside the house, Violet clung to Griff's arm, wishing things could be different and fighting not to weep.

London, England
Three years later

“R
ule, how good of you to come!” His hostess for the evening, Lady Annabelle Greer, floated toward him across the elaborately decorated ballroom in the London mansion she shared with her husband, Travis. “And I see you have brought Lucas with you.”

Her gaze shifted across the room to where his best friend, Lucas Barclay, made conversation with a delectable young widow he had only just recently met. Rule and Luke had attended Oxford together. Beyond that, they were shirt-sleeve relatives of a sort. Rule's oldest brother, Royal, the Duke of Bransford, was married to a cousin of Luke's brother's wife.

Rule returned his attention to his hostess. “It's good to see you, my lady.” With her light brown hair and clear blue eyes, Annabelle Townsend Greer was nearing thirty and the mother of three children, yet she was still a beautiful woman.

“I'm surprised you came. You are usually too busy working.” She tapped her painted fan against his shoulder. “Don't you know it is highly improper for a member of the aristocracy to labor for money like a commoner?” She grinned. “But then, none of you Dewars have ever given a fig for propriety.”

Rule grinned back. “I might say the same for you, my lady.” He could still recall rumors he had heard of the torrid affair that had resulted in Annabelle's marriage to Travis Greer, a former lieutenant in the British cavalry, confirmed bachelor and his brother Reese's best friend.

Anna just laughed. “I admit to being a bit outrageous at times. Not recently, though.”

Rule smiled. “No, not since your husband had the courage to take you in hand.”

Anna grinned at the ridiculous remark. If anything, it was the other way round. Travis walked up just then, a well-built man with sandy-brown hair and small, gold-rimmed spectacles who was clearly in love with his wife. A respected journalist with the
London Times,
he wrote articles about whatever war the country might be fighting at the moment.

The empty sleeve of his coat bore testimony to the price he had paid when he was in the cavalry with Reese.

“Good to see you, Rule.” Travis glanced around the ballroom, the mirrored walls reflecting images of dozens of elegantly dressed men and women. “So which of these lovely ladies has managed to capture your attention? I heard you ended your…association with the beautiful and intriguing Lady St. Ives.”

Rule took a sip of his champagne. “News travels fast.”

“I assume you're on the prowl again.”

He was indeed on the lookout for a new, more interest
ing mistress. He had grown tired of Evelyn Dreyer, Viscountess St. Ives, and several weeks back had ended the affair. It wasn't Evie's fault, he knew. For some time now, he had been feeling restless and bored, in search of something but not quite certain what it was.

Travis's gaze shifted away from him and moved around the ballroom. “Or could it be that you are finally on the hunt for a wife?”

The sip of champagne Rule had taken nearly spewed from his mouth. He shook his head. “I'm definitely not looking for a wife. At least not at the moment.”

No one in London knew he was married. Not even his family. He would have to tell them, of course, and soon. Should have done it long ago. But telling them would make it real. It would force him to admit it was past time he did his duty, went to Boston and retrieved his wife.

The thought had him excusing himself and heading for the liquor table for something stronger than champagne.

Luke caught up with him there. “The crowd is beginning to thin. How about we head over to the club? Or we could go to Crockfords, do a little gambling.” Luke was nearly as tall as Rule, with dark brown hair and keen brown eyes. He had a scar through his right eyebrow that gave him a rakish, dangerous appearance women seemed to find attractive.

“Or if you are
up to it,
we could stop by Madame Lafon's.” Luke grinned lasciviously at the pun, but Rule shook his head.

There was a time the elegant bordello had been one of his favorite ways to spend an evening. Lately, the notion of bedding one of the house's beautiful harlots held little appeal.

“How about Crockfords?” he said. “I've been on a bit of a lucky streak lately. Perhaps it will hold.”

Luke smiled. “Crockfords it is.”

The one thing Rule wasn't ready to do was go home. If he did, his conscience would nag him. He would think about the money Griff had left him when he died, the profitable investments from his lavish salary and the promise he had made. Though he had kept track of Violet through her aunt, Harriet Ardmore, he hadn't been back to see the girl since the day they were wed.

He had planned to be there when her father died, but Griff had passed with very little warning, leaving Rule no time to make the monthlong crossing from London to Boston. He'd sent a letter to Violet, of course, expressing his condolences, then was careful to write her a short note at least every other month.

But it wasn't the same as assuming his role of husband.

As he made his way out of the ballroom and stepped into the cool night air, he told himself it was time he kept his word. In the next week or two, he vowed, he would book a trip to Boston.

It was past time he went to collect his bride.

Rule ignored the sinking in the pit of his stomach.

 

Violet stepped off the clipper ship
Courageous,
grateful to once again be standing on dry land. At last, she was in London. She tightened her hold on the reticule hanging from her wrist and glanced at her surroundings. The docks buzzed with activity: stevedores unloading cargo, passengers disembarking from an endless line of ships along the quay, merchants hawking their wares to a herd of newly arrived, unsuspecting prey.

Gulls screeched overhead, their raucous cries mingled with the clatter and clank of ships' rigging, sounds Violet had grown so accustomed to she barely noticed.

“Isn't this exciting?” Her cousin, Caroline Lockhart, hurried along beside her, next to Mrs. Cummins, a lady of impeccable credentials who had been paid to act as their traveling companion.

“It is quite a bit different than I imagined,” Violet said, peering up at the skyline marked by tall church spires and a haphazard array of roofs dotted with chimney pots. “Everything looks older than I thought but that only seems to make it more charming.”

Though the area around the docks was certainly not the best. The buildings here were dilapidated and in need of repair, and aside from the travelers, most of the people on the streets were dressed in shabby clothes.

“I'll hire us a carriage,” offered Mrs. Cummins, a big-boned, sturdy woman with iron-gray hair. They would be parting company soon, once Violet arrived at the residence belonging to her husband.

Husband.
The word left a bad taste in her mouth. She hadn't seen Rule Dewar since their wedding day three years ago.

Oh, he had sent an occasional note but clearly he had no intention of fulfilling his duties to his wife.

And Violet was extremely glad.

She had been so young when she had met him. Young and impressed with his extravagant good looks. And she'd been grieving for the father she would soon have to bury. Griff wanted her to marry and she would have done anything to please him—even wed a man she didn't know.

“All right, girls, here we are.” Mrs. Cummins led them toward a ramshackle coach pulled by two tired-looking bay horses. The driver tipped his hat as he jumped down from the box and began hefting their steamer trunks into the boot at the rear of the vehicle.

Mrs. Cummins, very conscientious in her duties, watched the proceedings with a discerning eye. She had taken the job as companion in Aunt Harriet's place since Aunt Harry turned green at the mere thought of four long weeks at sea.

The substitution was fine by Violet, who had been living mostly on her own since her father died. Desperate to fill her days with something more than sadness and grief, she had begun taking an interest in her father's Boston munitions factory.

Growing up, she had spent a great deal of time there, learning about the business of making muskets and pistols, enjoying the hours with her father, playing the role of surrogate son.

“Come, girls,” Mrs. Cummins called out to them. “Let us get ourselves inside. This isn't a good place to dawdle.”

The coachman held open the door and waited for each of them to climb into the worn leather interior. Violet settled herself in the seat, adjusted her conservative navy-blue traveling gown and tightened the strings of the matching bonnet beneath her chin, but her thoughts remained on her father.

In the beginning, he had been concerned that an interest in business might not be wise for a young lady, but soon it became apparent she was far more excited about making money than she was about playing the role of wealthy, pampered young lady.

Then, six months after Griff had died, Mr. Haskell, head of the Boston branch of the company, had suddenly taken ill and been forced to retire. Aunt Harry had nearly suffered an apoplexy when Violet told her she planned to take over Mr. Haskell's duties, but Violet assured her that she would keep her role completely secret, and eventually her aunt had bent to Violet's very strong will.

Mrs. Cummins's worried voice drew her attention. “Dear me, what has happened to that address?” Her chubby hands dug frantically through her reticule. “I can't seem to find the paper it was written on.”

“Number six Portman Square,” Violet told her, knowing the address by heart. It was printed at the top of Rule's gold-embossed personal stationery, there on each of the very few letters she had received in the past three years.

Mrs. Cummins rapped on the roof of the carriage. “Driver, did you hear that?”

“Aye, madam. Number six Portman. 'Tis a bit o' a ride, but I'll get ye there safe and sound.”

“I hope it doesn't take too long,” Caroline said with a weary sigh. “I am beyond ready to take off my shoes and put my feet up for a while.” Like Violet, Caroline was also nineteen. The two were alike in other ways, as well. Each was a bit too outspoken and unfashionably wont to do as she pleased, but Violet was better at disguising her nature than Caroline, who didn't much care what other people thought of her.

She glanced outside the window, checking the angle of the sun. The afternoon was waning and all of them were tired. Echoing Caroline's sentiments, Violet could hardly wait to reach their destination.

Her thoughts returned to the man she had wed and a tendril of anger slipped through her. Rule Dewar had the gall to marry her, then completely abandon her. He had given her father his word, had promised that he would provide for her, and though she had plenty of money and servants enough to staff a large part of Boston, it was hardly what her father had intended.

And it certainly wasn't what Violet wanted. She wanted a husband who loved her, a man she could count on. She
wanted a family and children. She had played the fool once for Rule Dewar. Not again.

A faint, bitter smile lifted her lips. Rule was about to get his comeuppance. He would retain whatever sum her father had left him, but he was about to lose his half interest in Griffin Manufacturing.

Violet couldn't wait to see the look on his handsome face when she told him she was there to obtain an annulment.

 

It seemed to take forever, but eventually Violet and her party arrived at Rule's London residence, a narrow, four-story brick structure with a gabled slate roof. It sat among a row of similar residences, all of them situated around a small park planted with bright spring flowers enclosed by an ornate wrought-iron fence. Clearly, it was a very exclusive neighborhood, befitting Rule's station as the brother of a duke.

The thought stirred a trickle of irritation. How ridiculous it was to marry a man for his noble bloodlines. Why, Rule Dewar hadn't even had the integrity to keep his word!

Not like Jeffrey, she thought, his handsome image popping into her head. Blond hair and warm brown eyes, a nice, sincere smile. Jeffrey Burnett was twenty-eight, nine years Violet's senior, a man of some means she had met six months ago at a party given by a friend of Aunt Harriet's. Jeffrey was an attorney who worked a great deal in the shipping business. Since Griffin shipped armaments around the world, they had something in common.

They had become friends of a sort, and eventually Violet had confided the truth of her hasty, ill-considered marriage. A few weeks later, Jeffrey had revealed his very strong attraction to her and his interest in making her his wife.

Of course all of that was moot at the moment.

First she had to obtain an annulment, which would make possible her second reason for coming on such a long journey.

She wanted to sell Griffin Manufacturing.

The driver jumped down and pulled open the carriage door, jarring her back to the present.

“We're 'ere, ladies.”

Mrs. Cummins gave the man one of her imperious looks. “You'll need to wait, sir, while I make certain this is the correct address. If so, I shall be needing your services again.”

“Aye, madam.”

Mrs. Cummins would be leaving Violet and Caroline there, though there was a chance they would be turned away. She had no idea what Rule Dewar would do when she appeared uninvited on his doorstep.

As they reached the top of the brick stairs, Violet stood anxiously next to Caroline while Mrs. Cummins knocked on the ornate front door. A wispy, gray-haired man, apparently the butler, pulled it open. He looked down his long beak of a nose as if he couldn't imagine what three women would be doing on his employer's front porch.

“May I help you?”

Violet spoke up—she was, after all, Rule's wife. “I am Mrs. Rule Dewar. I am here to see my husband.”

The butler was frowning, his bushy white eyebrows drawn nearly together. “I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand.”