The Prince's Bride (4 page)

The pronouncement hung over the room like a sentence of condemnation. Shock was apparent on every face. No one said a word.

Jocelyn couldn’t believe her ears. How could her aunt suggest such a thing? But Aunt Louella had that look in her eyes that declared her decision was not open for discussion.

“Never!” Jocelyn got to her feet. “I can’t! I won’t!”

She looked at Beaumont. His jaw was clenched and his lips pressed into a firm line as if he was trying not to protest.

“If it is a question of marrying him or losing my life at the hands of a lunatic”—Jocelyn raised her chin defiantly—“I’d rather die.”

“It appears there’s a very good chance you will if you refuse,” Aunt Louella said.

“Then shoot me right now and be done with it because I won’t do it. I absolutely will not marry him.” Jocelyn shook her head vehemently. “Besides, I’m supposed to marry the prince. I know he’s about to ask me and once he does ...”

“But he hasn’t asked you and I cannot allow your life to rest on the possibility that he will.” Aunt Louella gestured at the floral arrangements filling the room. “These are lovely tokens but they do not mean Prince Alexei’s intentions are entirely honorable. I quite agree with Lord Beaumont’s assessment on that and Lord Helmsley’s as well. Any man, regardless of whether he is a prince or not, who seeks a private meeting with a young lady is not to be trusted.”

“But obviously he did not wish to propose publicly.” For the first time, Jocelyn wondered if indeed she had been mistaken as to Alexei’s intentions. He hadn’t actually said the word
marriage.
Could she have been wrong? Her cheeks flamed at the realization that perhaps his desire was not for marriage at all.

“This should be done as soon as possible,” Thomas said. “A special license can be arranged for in the morning.”

“No!” Jocelyn’s gaze darted from one face to another. Marianne’s expression was sympathetic, Thomas’s was resigned, and Becky looked as if this was an exciting adventure and not the end of her sister’s life. Or at least the life she had planned.

Beaumont didn’t say a word.

Jocelyn stared at him. “You can’t possibly want this.”

Beaumont considered her for a moment, then chose his words with care. “My wishes scarcely matter at this point. In many ways, as you have pointed out, I am indeed to blame for this situation. Therefore”—his gaze bored into hers—“it is my responsibility to correct it.”

“Oh, that’s all any woman could ask for, isn’t it?” Jocelyn snapped. “To be married off to correct a mistake?”

“It doesn’t seem quite fair,” Marianne murmured.

Becky scoffed. “But much fairer than one of us being killed by accident.”

Jocelyn swiveled toward her aunt. “Even if your suspicions about the prince are correct, and I don’t believe they are, I could still make a better match than”— Jocelyn waved at Beaumont—“than him!”

“I too would prefer to be shot rather than wed, my lady, but that does not seem a viable option.” Beaumont’s voice was grim.

“Jocelyn!” Aunt Louella said sharply. “Stop this at once.”

“No, I won’t stop it.” Jocelyn knew how petty she sounded but she couldn’t help herself. All her hopes and dreams were crashing in around her, and she refused to let them die without a fight. “I’d planned to marry a prince. Or at the very least a marquess. And look at him. He’s not shabby but I daresay he doesn’t have a great deal of money. I have certainly never so much as heard of him and he’s only a mere viscount!”

“I think he looks quite delicious,” Becky said with a grin. “I’d marry him.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Beaumont smiled and directed a bow toward the younger girl.

“Becky, do keep still. And Jocelyn.” Marianne sighed. “You’re being terribly rude.”

“I’m not being rude, I’m being honest. You are all quite willing to marry me off to someone I barely know, and I need to make each and every one of you realize this is a horrible, horrible mistake.” She whirled toward Beaumont. “Do forgive me, my lord. I don’t wish to be impolite and I am grateful for your intervention earlier tonight, but aside from the arrogance of your manner and admittedly your friendship with Lord Helmsley and a few other odds and ends that have surfaced this evening, I know nothing whatsoever about you. So, in truth, this is not entirely personal.”

“And for that I am most grateful.” Beaumont folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the mantel. “I can only wonder, now that you have denigrated my character and my title and my fortune, what’s next? Would you care to cast aspersions on my ancestry? Or would you rather wait until we are man and wife and you know of my many other flaws to continue your tirade?”

Jocelyn grit her teeth and glared at him. “You are most annoying, my lord.”

“And you are spoiled and at the moment at least, rather insufferable.” His gaze traveled over her in an assessing manner. “While you are not unpleasant to look at—”

“Not unpleasant?” Jocelyn gasped. “I’ll have you know men have compared my hair to spun gold and my eyes to moonlight.”

“Men who, no doubt, were interested in meeting you in the privacy of an empty music room.” The pleasant tone of his voice belied the loathsome nature of his words.

Sheer outrage choked her response and she could do nothing more than sputter.

“In addition, your character is apparently quite shallow, your intelligence is suspect, your behavior is not unlike that of a child, and I have serious questions about your morals. In short, my dear lady, were I to select a bride of my own choosing you would not be my first choice.” He smiled sweetly, and once again Jocelyn wanted to hit him.

“Oh, this is starting out well,” Marianne said under her breath.

“We should make the arrangements at once,” Thomas said.

“No, wait. Please.” Jocelyn pressed her fingers to her temples and tried to think. Surely there was some way to avoid this disaster. “What if... what if I go with him but... but we bring Aunt Louella as a chaperone. And servants.” She addressed her plea to Marianne, possibly her best hope among this group for salvation. “Lots and lots of servants.”

“Impossible,” Beaumont said. “We will have to travel quickly and by horseback.”

Aunt Louella shook her head. “I can’t possibly ride a horse in this state.”

“And the fewer people who know about this the better,” Beaumont added.

Jocelyn glared at him. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps a bit. It always helps to find amusement in dire circumstances.” He shrugged. “I am reconciled. Nothing more. And unfortunately, I cannot see another way to save both your life and your reputation.”

“Dearest Jocelyn,” Marianne said softly. “There doesn’t appear to be any choice.”

The inevitability of it pressed in on her. Jocelyn’s heart sank. “There has to be something.”

“Consider for a moment, child,” Aunt Louella’s voice was gentle. “How you would feel if something were to happen to Marianne or Becky because of you. You would never forgive yourself.”

She was right, of course. They were all right. Even that blasted Beaumont. It could all be blamed on her. If she’d never gone to meet Alexei none of this would have happened. And her life would not be ruined.

“Very well then.” Jocelyn squared her shoulders. “I’ll marry him but”—she turned toward Beaumont— “the moment this is resolved I want an annulment.”

“An annulment is exceeding difficult to get,” Aunt Louella said.

“Wouldn’t you have to be insane for that?” Thomas asked Beaumont.

“What makes you think I’m not?” Beaumont muttered. “I’m marrying her.”

Jocelyn ignored him. “Or a divorce then.”

“Even harder.” A smile quirked the corner of Beaumont’s mouth. “The best you can hope for, my dear, is to be a young widow.”

“I shall work on that.” Jocelyn fairly spit the words.

“It appears we are all in agreement then.” Aunt Louella nodded firmly. “Come, Becky, help me up the stairs. Marianne, go with Jocelyn and start packing her things.” Becky assisted Aunt Louella to her feet. The older woman paused. “Jocelyn, my dear, I know this is not what you’ve planned for your life but I am confident all will work out well. He is a good man. You could do far worse.”

“I could do far better,” Jocelyn muttered.

“As could I.” Beaumont swept a sarcastic bow.

Aunt Louella’s gaze lingered first on her niece, then Beaumont. “You may very well suit each other better than you think now. You have already shared a kiss.”

“How did—” Jocelyn started.

“As one gets older, one realizes eavesdropping is not the sin it has been portrayed. Now then, as I was saying, the two of you also share a passionate distaste for one another. Many newly wed couples do not even have that much in common.” She leaned on Becky and started toward the door, then stopped and glanced back at Beaumont. “You did say this all came about because the men involved believe Jocelyn will identify them, thus ruining their plans?”

“Yes,” Beaumont said cautiously.

Aunt Louella chuckled. “Delicious irony there, don’t you think?” She turned and let Becky help her from the room. “I do so love irony ...”

Jocelyn stared after them. “I am glad one of us is finding this amusing.”

“Two of us.” Beaumont’s voice sounded behind her.

A dozen scathing comments rose to her lips but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a response. “Come along, Marianne, apparently I have to pack for my”—she gritted her teeth—“wedding.”

“One bag, no more,” Beaumont called. “We will have to travel quickly and we will be on horseback.”

“One bag? I can’t possibly—” She started to turn, then caught herself. No, there would be plenty of time later to trade barbs with the arrogant viscount. “Very well.” She continued toward the door.

Behind her she could hear Marianne’s lowered voice and Thomas’s reply. It scarcely mattered what they were saying. Jocelyn’s fate was sealed. She would never be a princess. Never be more than a mere viscountess. She held her head high and marched out of the room.

If it wasn’t for the threat her presence posed to her family she’d stay right here and take her chances. Run the risk of another shot in the night or a knife flung at her head or poison in her luncheon meal or any number of other ways to meet her demise. At the moment, danger of any kind was far preferable to marriage to Randall, Viscount Beaumont.

At the moment, she’d rather be dead.

“She’s not as bad as she seems.” Thomas took a sip of his brandy and studied his friend. The men had retired to the library, allegedly to discuss arrangements, but right now Rand wanted little more than to indulge in Thomas’s excellent liquor for the rest of the night.

“Oh?” Rand raised a brow. “In what way?”

“Well.” Thomas thought for a moment. “She is pretty.”

“She’s exquisite.” Rand could well see why men had compared her hair to gold and her eyes to moonlight. Although they were mistaken. Her eyes were definitely the color of honey. Warm, tempting honey. “And she knows it.”

“That she does.” Thomas chuckled. “Are you going to tell her you have money?”

“What? And spoil her martyrdom? Let her believe what she wishes for now. Besides, my finances are nothing compared to yours and I doubt the lovely Jocelyn would be happy with anything less. The Beaumonts have made and lost any number of fortunes through the generations while your family”—he raised his glass in a salute—“has always managed to keep its money.”

Thomas lifted his glass in response. “We Effingtons are clever when it comes to funds. Still, your fortune is quite respectable. Even impressive.”

“We have succeeded in holding on to it through the last three generations. That’s something at any rate. I daresay, though, it’s not impressive enough for the fair Lady Jocelyn.” Rand chuckled in spite of himself. “She really is somewhat mercenary.”

“That she is.” Thomas grinned.

“Not precisely the quality I would wish for in a wife.” Rand heaved a heavy sigh.

“What one wishes for and what one gets are often decidedly different.” Thomas drew a long sip, then continued. “And often decidedly better.”

“Ah, words of wisdom late in the night,” Rand said wryly. “Pity your philosophy will not hold true in this case.”

“Perhaps,” Thomas murmured.

For a long time, neither spoke, sharing the kind of companionable silence known only to men secure in the knowledge of lasting and loyal friendship.

It was somehow fitting to be in this room on this night with this friend. Seated in these very chairs, through the years of their acquaintance, he and Thomas had shared any number of brandies and traded any number of confidences and discussed any number of women. It was here a few months ago that Thomas had first complained of having the Shelton sisters in his charge for the season. And then later, this was where they had hatched a somewhat drunken, but nonetheless successful, scheme to convince Lady Marianne to accept Thomas’s proposal of marriage.

“Are you familiar with her background?” Thomas said casually.

“Familiar enough, I suppose.” Rand sipped his drink and thought for a moment. “I know her brother, Richard, is the Earl of Shelbrooke and married to your sister, Gillian. I know they are currently somewhere in America awaiting the birth of their first child.”

“And what of her father?”

“He was something of a gambler if I recall.”

Thomas snorted with disdain. “An unsuccessful gambler and in truth a bit of a wastrel. His wife died when the sisters were very young. Afterward the old earl squandered the family fortune and left his daughters, four of them altogether, practically penniless. They grew up in the country, at Shelbrooke Manor, a grand old house once that had fallen into appalling disrepair. Richard used to try to fix things there himself.”

Thomas leaned forward. “They weren’t complete paupers, you understand. From what Marianne has said, I gather it was a kind of genteel poverty. Richard was rather wild in his youth and not around at all until after his father died. Then he did what he could to recoup the family’s finances but”—Thomas shrugged— “it was not until last year when he married Gillian and they inherited a tidy fortune that the lives of his sisters finally improved.”

“I didn’t know.”

“The perfectly attired, elegant, and admittedly spoiled Lady Jocelyn you see today has not had an easy time of it.” Thomas settled back in his chair. “If she revels in her family’s newfound fortune, and indeed views wealth and an impressive title as the path to happiness, I daresay it’s understandable.”

“I suppose it is.” Rand downed the liquor in his glass and held it out for a refill. It was difficult to reconcile this Lady Jocelyn with the childhood Thomas had described. And difficult as well to equate it to his own. As a boy, he’d never questioned where the money for good food or fine clothing or excellent horses had come from. He’d never had to. “Still, it is an explanation, not an excuse.”

Thomas started to respond, then held his tongue and instead picked up the decanter on a table beside him and obligingly filled Rand’s glass. Good. Rand preferred not to hear anything else tonight that might put his future wife in a better light. It was his responsibility to keep her safe, and if that meant marriage, so be it. There would be time enough to make peace with the idea, and the lady, later. Tonight he wanted nothing more than to wallow in the self-pity of having to marry a woman not of his own choosing.

Odd, he’d liked her a great deal more on their first meeting tonight than he did now. And admittedly quite enjoyed kissing her and, more, her reluctant, but present nonetheless, response. Of course, earlier this evening he was saving her life. Now she claimed he was ruining it.

“Are you taking her to the Abbey then?”

“No, but I will admit that’s the first place I thought of, and frankly I wouldn’t mind a good long stay.” Rand’s London townhouse was more than comfortable but it was the Abbey, nestled in the hills of Bedfordshire, that he considered home. It had been months since he’d been back. “Especially since my mother is not in residence at the moment.”

“I gather that would make the Abbey more attractive.”

Rand blew a short breath. “Infinitely. Every time I see her of late she is compelled to mention her desire to see me wed and the need for a Beaumont heir. She’s driving me mad.”

“Will she be pleased then about this turn of events?”

“She would be pleased if I were to bring home a bride with two heads and warts. Given Jocelyn’s family connections I’m certain my mother will be ecstatic.” Rand chuckled. “However, I am also exceedingly grateful that I can avoid introductions for a while. I believe my mother is in Italy at the moment. Given her passion for gossip, and our need for secrecy, I’m grateful for her absence.

“I’m hopeful that as of now, my involvement in all this is still unknown. Should that change, while Beaumont Abbey is not as obvious as Effington Hall or Shelbrooke Manor as a sanctuary for Jocelyn, if someone was trying to locate me, the Abbey is the first place anyone would look.”

Thomas pulled his brows together. “If you’re not going to the Abbey, then where ...”

“Do you recall my mother’s stepbrother? My Uncle Nigel?”

“Lord Worthington, isn’t it? I vaguely remember you speaking of him. Is he still alive? He must be ... what?

“Past seventy now, and yes, he’s still around.” Rand chuckled then sobered. “He’s been quite ill of late and I was afraid we’d lose him. That’s where I’ve been for most of the season. But he’s a stubborn old goat and he pulled through. Thank God. He’ll probably bury us all.

“At any rate, I thought Worthington Castle would be the best place to wait until this matter is resolved. I’m afraid my uncle has let it run down a bit but it’s not intolerable.”

“Jocelyn’s always wanted to live in a castle,” Thomas murmured.

“I doubt if this was what she had in mind. Still, it’s probably the last place anyone would expect the incomparable Lady Jocelyn to be.”

“The incomparable Lady Beaumont, you mean.”

“Damn it all, Thomas, I’ve never considered myself a romantic sort. I’ve always thought I was rather practical. The kind of man who sees what needs to be done and does it.” Rand pulled himself to his feet and paced the room.

“The kind of man who feels it’s his duty to participate when his country is at war,” Thomas said quietly.

“I suppose, although admittedly at first I saw it all as a grand adventure and great fun.” The muscles of his face tightened into the hard expression that came without thinking whenever talk turned to Rand’s activities during the war.

In the beginning, intelligence work was little more than a game. Exciting and exhilarating, a gamble with high stakes. But all too soon he realized the stakes were not merely high but a matter of life and death, not just for him but for the faceless thousands of British troops who would be affected by the accuracy of the information he gathered and conveyed. And with the realization came fear. The kind of fear known only to those who held the fate of other men in their hands. Fear that sharpened his senses and honed his skills and made him more than he’d ever imagined he could be.

Perhaps that was the problem tonight. He simply hadn’t been terrified enough to do a good job. He might well be now. He would not allow someone, anyone, to lose his life because he did not do his job. Not in the past. Not ever.

“You’re not a romantic sort?” Thomas prompted.

“What? Oh, yes.” Rand shook off the memories of the past. “I am not prone to flowery phrases or”—he cast Thomas a grin—“poetry. Yet, whenever I’ve considered marriage I’ve thought...”

He groped for the right words and continued his pacing. What did he think? His footsteps brought him from the light cast by the lamps to the deeper shadows of the library and back. It struck him as a fitting metaphor for his life. “I thought...”

“You thought?”

“I thought I’d at least
know
the woman. Probably even like her. Definitely desire her. And more, actually
want
to spend the rest of my days with her.” His thoughts jelled even as he spoke the words. “I’ve never particularly considered love but I have always thought, or at least hoped, it was a possibility.

“My parents loved each other. And since my father’s death my mother has been in love a dozen times or more.”

Thomas choked back a laugh.

Rand couldn’t resist a grin. “At least she has claimed to be in love. But never enough to give up the title of Viscountess Beaumont, so perhaps not.” He shook his head. “Even though my father is gone, I believe Mother married for life. Hers as well as his.”

He glanced at Thomas. “As I suspect I will. Because I further suspect there will be no annulment, no divorce.”

“Either would be extremely difficult.” Thomas studied him carefully. “Are you sure there is no other choice here but marriage?”

“No. I wish I was.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t even know for certain if there is any continuing threat. All I do know is that should anything happen to Lady Jocelyn, it would be my fault. And I cannot allow that. So”—he uttered a strained laugh— “I am about to be wed.”

“It could be worse,” Thomas said helpfully. “She could be ugly.”

“Come now, Thomas.” Rand sank back down into his chair. “An ugly girl would be grateful for a husband regardless of the circumstances. I’d much prefer a bride’s gratitude to her hatred.”

“I doubt that she hates you.”

Rand cast Thomas a dubious glance.

“Perhaps, at the moment...” Thomas smiled weakly.

“Nonetheless.” Rand heaved a resigned sigh. “She is to be my wife.” He shook off the melancholy the words brought. There were far more serious things to consider at the moment than his future wife’s feelings. “Now then, about tomorrow ...”

Briefly they went over the arrangements for the next day. It was simple enough. Rand would get a special license and Thomas would quietly secure a minister to marry them right here in the house. It was unorthodox but Thomas was confident Effington money would smooth the way.

The rest of the family would make a great show of leaving for the country at dusk. While Thomas, Marianne, Becky, and Aunt Louella headed by carriage in one direction, Rand and Jocelyn would travel by horseback in the other. It was an odd hour to start a journey but Rand felt it was imperative to leave London under cover of darkness.

“Enough of this.” Rand sat his glass on the table and got to his feet. “I have arrangements to make.”

In spite of the late hour, he would go at once to speak with his superior, the man who’d gotten him into this mess. Now that Rand had ascertained there was indeed at least a political threat to the prince, it was imperative that the investigation continue, albeit with someone else at its head. He would also request permission to leave the man’s name with Thomas simply as a precaution. He hoped his friend would never need the information, but it was best to be prepared for any eventuality. It shouldn’t be a problem. As the son of the Duke of Roxborough, the Marquess of Helmsley was above reproach.

Thomas stood and studied him in an offhand manner. “Regarding whatever it is you’re doing?”

Rand bit back a smile. As intensely curious as Thomas no doubt was, he could count on his friend not to ask untoward questions. In the years after Napoleon’s defeat, while Thomas had now and again casually asked about Rand’s wartime activities, he’d never pressed for answers. Rand’s secrets remained secret.

“Precisely.” Rand grinned. “Although I have a few personal arrangements to make as well if I am to leave the city tomorrow.” He started toward the door. “With luck, this will be resolved soon and we can return from the country. At any rate, Prince Alexei will return to Avalonia within the next few weeks, and I’m confident that will put an end to any danger for”—he tried not to choke on the word—“my wife.”