The Reluctant Bride Read online

  ‘How was mama?’ Jonathan, older by a couple of years, twisted his head. His ready smile was amiable, differentiating him from the sibling he had once most closely resembled.

  That, and the now generous coating of flesh, a legacy of his comfortable seven-year marriage.

  ‘Same,’ Angus replied shortly, drawing level once they’d reached more hospitable terrain. Then, as if remembering he addressed his brother who really was interested, and not some cavalry man who expected only a monosyllabic answer, added, ‘In delicate health, of course. Apparently only a visit from her dear boys stood between her and her eternity box.’

  Jonathan chuckled. ‘Forever susceptible to the damsel in distress, aren’t you, little brother? Incidentally, I hear you were in these parts not so long ago.’ He indicated the emerald turf on the chalk downs with a sweep of his arm then directed Angus a candid look through a pair of myopic blue eyes. ‘Rather an out-of-the-way place to find yourself?’

  Angus shrugged, not feeling it necessary to give any reasons. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Business? Military? By the way, how are you faring on half pay? I understand you want to assess your future after fighting so long for king and country, but you’ll have to make up your mind what you’re going to do before much longer.’

  Angus gave another non-committal shrug. ‘I’m a half step ahead of the creditors. Tedium’s the worst of it, though without Johnson it’s the very devil taking off my own boots.’ Angus had not yet replaced his loyal batman who’d been pensioned off to a small cottage in Norfolk since Angus had given up soldiering as his main livelihood. ‘Thought I might go to Africa and be a mercenary.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘You advise me, Jonathan.’

  ‘Find yourself a wife.’ Jonathan put a hand to his expanded girth. ‘A rich one. You look half starved.’

  ‘Don’t pity me.’ Angus glanced towards the beech wood.

  He hated it when his brother broached this topic.

  Jonathan gave a snort. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ Reflectively, he added, ‘Can’t pretend to know all the answers either, though I do know you never chose the army willingly and wonder why you don’t pack it in altogether.’

  ‘It doesn’t suit me as ill as I’d once supposed.’ The truth was, Angus didn’t know what to do with his life. War held no appeal. Hostilities with France had been a fact of life for as long as he could remember and men of his calibre were always needed to repulse the Corsican invader. ‘I was hardly cut out for London revels, and as a military man I have some purpose.’

  ‘Unlike the rest of your ramshackle family?’ A grumble of laughter escaped his brother as they forded a shallow stream. ‘You haven’t answered my question. What brought you here?’

  Angus was uncomfortably conscious of their proximity to the honey-coloured pile of stone which housed the beautiful, bereaved Miss Micklen. She’d occupied so many of his waking thoughts these past months. He wondered how she did.

  And wished he didn’t care.

  Unconsciously he fingered the scar that puckered his cheek, an old habit of his when thinking. The disfigurement did not trouble him. No point concerning himself with his physical appearance when he could do so little about it. Jonathan had once remarked it was as well Angus did not aspire to be a Corinthian like the rest of their brothers.

  ‘Military business,’ Angus said shortly, shifting in the saddle.

  ‘Distasteful, I would gather, by your reaction?’

  ‘Oh no,’ responded Angus with an uncharacteristic curve of the lips as he compared Miss Micklen with the wives of other officers. He turned his head away, irritated with his lack of discretion.

  Obviously Angus was getting too comfortable. Jonathan had been his only champion during a lonely childhood, but now he was an adult Angus had learned the folly of letting down his guard, even with Jonathan. Especially with Jonathan. They had been on the road for more than two hours, returning from a visit to a prospective boarding school in Dover for Jonathan’s eldest boy. The small town of Deal where Jonathan had business was just coming into view, after which they’d turn their mounts west and Angus could enjoy his sister-in-law Caroline’s hospitality for one night of comfort. The thought of returning to his sparse soldier’s lodgings in Maidstone brought Angus no joy.

  Silence lengthened and when Jonathan continued to direct his enquiring gaze at him, Angus replied stiffly, ‘It is always unpleasant reporting a casualty to loved ones.’

  Staring ahead, he was conscious of the flush that stole up his neck as his brother remarked, ‘Didn’t know that fell within the line of duty. Thought correspondence was the usual. After we’ve taken a nuncheon at The Four Swans why don’t we call on the young lady and see how she fares since she’s in these parts?’

  ‘I’d rather not. The nature of her betrothed’s death was not …’ Angus left the sentence unfinished. Trust Jonathan to have guessed it was a female. At his brother’s raised eyebrows he sighed and continued. ‘The man she was to have married, a fellow officer, died in a brawl over a camp follower. A woman.’ The hard look he directed at Jonathan was meant to convey his desire to end this line of questioning.

  Jonathan continued to look enquiring.

  Angus gave in, realising as he spoke a kind of catharsis in unburdening himself. ‘The woman’s protector came upon the pair en flagrante. He seized Captain Noble’s sabre which was lying outside the tent, and I arrived at the scene in time to see the cut which ended Noble’s life.’

  The image was branded on his conscience. Noble was a deceitful, untrustworthy braggart but he hadn’t deserved to die. Angus forced out the words. ‘I directed the man there. He was a foot soldier who regarded the female with whom I suspected Captain Noble was dallying as his wife. Righteously, I admit, I felt that Noble, affianced as he was, ought to be brought to task.’ He cast a beseeching look at Jonathan. ‘I therefore hold myself partly responsible, but of necessity have had to put another light on the incident … for the sake of Miss Micklen.’

  ‘As your brother and as a man of the cloth, I grant you absolution.’

  To his surprise Jonathan appeared not the slightest bit condemnatory. He went on, ‘You might be insufferably righteous, as you put it, at times, but you are not vengeful. Therefore,’ he added, patting his horse’s neck, ‘I strongly believe it will help your conscience to know how his lady fares while lightening her grief to be reassured her sacrifice is appreciated.’

  It took a great deal of persuasion before Angus reluctantly agreed to the detour.

  There was, however, no friendly welcome for them at Micklen Hall.

  ‘You wish me to convey your respects to my daughter?’ Mr Micklen, standing by the mantelpiece, was an intimidating character. Like his bristling eyebrows, his thick thatch of hair was pure white, his eyes an unsettling pale blue. Though slightly stooped, he’d clearly once been a handsome, commanding figure. Now any claim to handsomeness was obliterated by the ugly twist to his mouth. Angus could imagine men quailing like girls when subjected to such sneering, belittling scorn. It was hard to know how to respond to a reception that all but painted him as Jack Noble’s murderer, but the sooner he took his leave, the better.

  He added sympathy to the other feelings he harboured for Miss Micklen. Noble must have offered a welcome escape from her father’s house. In the uncomfortable silence, Angus went over what his investigations had revealed about the old man, though why he should have been interested was a moot point.

  Bartholomew Micklen was not, by birth, a gentleman, but in just a few years he’d trebled the fortune brought him by the French bride he’d rescued from the guillotine and brought to England in the midst of the revolution in France twenty years before. Micklen’s detractors hinted at nefarious dealings that went beyond the smuggling that contributed to the livelihoods of so many who lived along this part of the Kentish coast.

  Shortly after Angus had returned from his condolence visit, a subaltern in his cups had eagerly supplied Angus with some background to the circumstances surrounding the impending marriage of the beautiful Miss Emily Micklen.

  When Miss Micklen had refused her father’s initial choice of bridegroom—an elderly viscount—the old man had withdrawn the generous dowry that was a condition of his daughter marrying a title. White’s Betting Book had Miss Micklen earmarked for an earl at the very least, given her father’s ambition.

  So Micklen’s subsequent endorsement of the impecunious, raffish Jack Noble was a surprise.

  Angus wondered how the pair had met since he gathered Miss Micklen had spent a year in isolation following her initial rebelliousness.

  His host kicked a burning log into the grate, then turned to glare at his visitors from beneath his shaggy white eyebrows. ‘And your regrets? It’s my daughter who has regrets!’

  Mrs Micklen, who was staring into the fire, made a convulsive movement. Her hands trembled in her lap and her eyes were glazed. Clearly she was following the conversation but her husband had not addressed her.

  ‘Lucy! Show the gentlemen out.’

  ‘My apologies for troubling you, sir.’ Angus bowed as the parlour maid opened the drawing room door to usher them into the passage. Stiffly, he added in parting, ‘I had wished merely to enquire after your daughter, sir, since it was I who broke the news of her bereavement.’

  Micklen grunted.

  The maid, whom he remembered from before, handed them their coats, then waited with frightened brown eyes as they donned hats and mufflers.

  ‘Please, sirs,’ she whispered with a furtive glance behind her. ‘Miss Micklen is staying with the master’s sister, Miss Gemma, in Sussex.’ Her mouth trembled. ‘Don’t know as I’m doin’ the right thing telling you, but me brother was a brave soldier what fought at Corunna – only Charlie never came home. Well, he we
re a hero too, what rescued a lass in sore need of a friend just before he left with his regiment … A lass just like my poor Miss Emily, so I feels it only right to beg you to do the same.’

  ‘Seems as if poor Miss Micklen’s fit of the dismals has sent both parents queer in the attic,’ remarked Jonathan as he vaulted into the saddle. ‘Sussex? To pay a social call? I don’t think so.’ Picking up the reins, he glanced at his brother with a droll look. His mouth dropped open. ‘Good Lord, Angus,’ he said, ‘you have got it bad.’

  Emily sat on the edge of her bed chewing her finger nails, cursing the fact her curiosity had got the better of her.

  To be seen at the casement by Major McCartney of all people! Why he should wish to call on her, she had no idea. But it was beyond anything to be caught out in such a shameless snub which reflected more on her, yet would no doubt be taken personally by him. Not that she was in a mood to care greatly for anyone else’s sensibilities. She had enough to worry about.

  Resting her forehead into the palm of her hand, she hunched over the bed and tried to think sensibly. Well, regardless of how far he had travelled to see her, or why, she was not going to receive him.

  It was at that point she received the summons from her aunt. Interfering, controlling Aunt Gemma who was not one to be thwarted, as evidenced by her threat to fetch Emily down herself.

  Emily crossed to the dressing table. What a sight she looked. Was there any point in taking pains with her appearance, to at least make herself a little more presentable? The major would leave, shocked, either way. But moments after Mary had withdrawn there was Grummidge, Aunt Gemma’s personal dresser, upon the threshold.

  What on earth was Aunt Gemma up to?

  Emily made her appearance in the blue saloon ten minutes later, dispatched by the thin-lipped, stiff-backed retainer with the dubious reassurance that she looked as good as she ought, under the circumstances.

  And those circumstances were not the most auspicious, anyone would agree.

  ‘Major McCartney.’ How she managed to retain an aura of calm dignity in the face of the almost instantaneous fiery blush that rushed up from his shirt points, Emily never knew.

  And then, suddenly, Aunt Gemma had abandoned her and she was left alone with the tongue-tied soldier.

  Almost defiantly she stood in the window embrasure with the light behind her, throwing her silhouette into relief. There really could be no hiding the swollen belly that proclaimed her spectacular fall from grace.

  ‘Miss … Micklen,’ he stammered, bowing, his eyes seemingly reluctant to travel upwards from the tops of his boots. So ludicrously apparent was his discomfiture that Emily actually laughed.

  ‘You see how it is with me,’ she said harshly, smoothing the loose, unflattering garment over her stomach. ‘I don’t wonder you are struck dumb, Major. Nor do I know why my aunt, who has been at such pains to keep me hidden, should have me flaunt myself before you.’

  ‘When I told her I’d come from Kent she seemed to realise my interest was sincere. My—’

  ‘Commiserations? Condolences?’

  The young soldier bit his lip. ‘Did Captain Noble know?’

  ‘That he was to be a father? No, Major McCartney. He was killed before even I knew.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry that he never knew? Or sorry for my predicament?’ Crossing the room she lowered herself awkwardly into a chair, gesturing him to be seated while she poured the tea that Mary had just brought in.

  ‘Both.’ Frowning, he leaned forward to accept the dainty china cup she offered him. ‘What will you do …?’ Clearly too embarrassed to complete the sentence, he coloured once more.

  Emily regarded him with wry amusement. ‘You have no sisters, do you, Major?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he confirmed.

  ‘But you ask me what I will do?’ She sipped her tea and said with the faintest shrug, ‘I am ruined, of course.’

  ‘You were to be married the week after I visited you, I recall.’ Quickly, the young major added, ‘I’m not judging you, Miss Micklen. It was ill’—he reddened further—‘luck.’

  * * *

  Angus’s embarrassment abated with the realisation Miss Micklen was using proud defiance to mask her fear. He was suddenly brought to mind of that other young woman whose dark hair, pale skin and light blue eyes reminded him so much of the fair bereaved Miss Micklen. Jessamine had done the same.

  ‘Miss Micklen, whatever happens, let me assure you of my discretion.’ He wanted to believe she had hope, but his brief interview with her father was not reassuring. Angus knew it was easier for a parent to cast off an erring daughter than a husband a wayward wife. His own parents’ troubled union had made that clear enough.

  ‘Thank you, Major. You are, of course, a gentleman and’—her voice trembled—‘have shown uncommon kindness in visiting me so as to reassure yourself as to my welfare …’ The bravado slipped. She looked close to tears as she whispered, ‘I’m sorry if I have embarrassed you.’

  Suddenly she was no longer the proud, unobtainable beauty whose confident gaze about the ballroom did not even register his presence.

  Ruined. Her grim assessment was true enough. She would be forever barred from respectable society for a transgression no unmarried woman was ever forgiven. Without a timely marriage to legitimise Jack Noble’s child she would lose everything that constituted a life even bearable.

  Miss Micklen regarded him silently. Proudly. Despite her swollen belly she held herself like a queen. Her porcelain skin glowed and her inky black hair shone.

  It was her regal hauteur which decided him.

  A graceless soldier such as himself could never hope to win a wife of Miss Micklen’s calibre.

  Unless she were desperate.

  Reason banished the uncharacteristic and impulsive madness.

  Become father to another man’s child? What’s more, a man he despised? No, Angus did not act rashly.

  He returned his gaze to her lovely face. It glowed with energy and serenity, tinged with defiance. Yet he sensed she wished for his approbation.

  She had it, and surprisingly, without disgust. Miss Micklen could only be considered a blameless victim of her betrothed’s selfish coercion. Jack Noble would be better remembered for his shameless want of conduct with regard to the fairer sex than his heroism.

  He opened his mouth to speak. Like the uncharacteristic impetuosity that had driven him to ride two days to get here, he was again driven by impulses beyond his control, to speak words he had never imagined he was capable. Words that would, he now hoped, change his life forever.

  He turned as the door opened.

  ‘My apologies, Major McCartney. Emily, a quick word if I may.’

  With the ghost of a smile upon her thin lips, Miss Micklen’s aunt beckoned from the doorway. ‘Cook is in a pet over some disturbance in the kitchen. You are so much better at restoring domestic calm. I’d appreciate it if you went to her.’

  As the door closed behind her niece, the venerable Miss Gemma Micklen waved Angus back into his seat while she folded her lanky frame into the chair opposite.

  ‘So Major McCartney … You see how it is with Emily,’ she said bluntly. ‘Captain Noble is dead, but she might just as well be, too. Her father has cast her off without a penny. He will not forgive her. Emily came here in a dog cart with one trunk, and no more. The workhouse was her only alternative, and that’s the truth.’

  Angus’s thought that perhaps France might offer a safe haven was nipped in the bud by her next words.

  ‘Madame Guillotine disposed of the French side of the family twenty years ago – except for an aunt rumoured to have bestowed her favours upon Napoleon, or some enemy of that nature.’

  Miss Micklen fixed him with a steely look. ‘Now, Major McCartney, what I have to say might sound somewhat peremptory. You have met Emily but twice. No doubt she expects that after today’s morning call she will never see you again. I, however, have other hopes.’

  Angus had never lost his nerve in battle, but facing the lovely Miss Emily Micklen in the same grim parlour the next day tested his mettle like nothing ever had.

  It was not that he had expected to be thanked. He had not, however, expected to be scorched by such a fulminating look, and subjected to what amounted to a violent diatribe.