Here Comes the Bride Read online

  “My lord, welcome home.”

  Stepping into the black and white marble foyer, Simon glanced up at the large coat of arms that hung above the arched·door to the main hall. Just for a moment he recalled being a terrified young lad as he had stood in this hall, waiting to meet the man who would teach him to become the next Earl of Challmond. It was a memory he swiftly dismissed as he turned back to the butler. The days of bleak loneliness and uncertainty were in the past. He was a gentleman with his destiny firmly in his grasp.

  “Thank you, Calvert, it is good to be back.” He waved his hand toward his silent companion. “And this is Mr. Lockmeade. The gentleman who saved my life.”

  Locky immediately flushed with embarrassment. “Bah.”

  “Show Mr. Lockmeade to the blue room and have a bath drawn.”

  Without displaying a hint of displeasure that his master had arrived without so much as a note of warning and brought along a guest, Calvert gave a nod of his head.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Simon flashed his friend an encouraging smile. “I put you in capable hands, Locky. I shall meet you for a brandy in the library before we dine.”

  Locky grimaced. HIT I can find the bloody library.”

  “I shall have Calvert sketch you a map.”

  “Have him send a carriage,” Locky countered with a gleam in his dark eyes. “I shall no doubt have to track halfway back to London to find my bedchamber.”

  Simon chuckled. “Chin up, old chap.”

  With a half-mocking bow Locky turned and allowed the burler to lead him up the large curving staircase. On his own, Simon tossed his hat and gloves onto an ebony table inlaid with ivory and made his way through the main hall. He could use a bath and rest himself after his long ride, but his feet determinedly carried him to the last doorway and into the sprawling library.

  A tiny pang tugged at his heart as he stepped in and glanced at the book-lined walls and heavy black chimney piece flanked by matching wing chairs. The scent of aged leather forcibly reminded him of the old earl and the days he had spent carefully tutoring the young Simon in the intricate details of managing the vast estate. He had been a stern taskmaster who had offered little compassion for Simon’s tender age or his wrenching desire to return to his own large, boisterous family, but in retrospect Simon forced himself to acknowledge that the old earl had simply done what he thought best for his heir.

  Now he moved across the Persian carpet to peer through the open French doors at the garden. Although it was early March, the beds were well tended with a few spring blooms, adding a touch of color to the formal hedges and sparkling fountains. A faint sound behind him had Simon spinning about to watch the thin, gray-haired housekeeper step into the room.

  “My lord, welcome home.” She regarded him with obvious pleasure.

  Home?

  Was he home?

  For that matter, what was home?

  This vast estate? His elegant town house in London? The derelict, overcrowded vicarage of his parents?

  Perhaps none of them was truly his home.

  What had Philip said?

  “A gentleman should never become overly attached to a woman or a home. They were both demanding masters that would steal a man’s soul. . . .”

  With a mental shrug Simon forced a smile to his lips. The older woman was clearly pleased at his arrival, and the least he could do was pretend he was just as delighted to be there.

  “Thank you, Mrs. King.”

  “Can I bring you tea?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Cook is making your favorite scones.” The older woman narrowed her gaze as she studied Simon’s slender form. “A good thing too. You appear half starved.”

  Simon took no offense at the servant’s familiar manner. Mrs. King had been the closest he had to a mother when he had come to Westwood Park.

  “I was certainly not so well fed as I am here,” he admitted.

  “I should think not,” Mrs. King sniffed. “What does the army know of caring for a proper gentleman?”

  Simon grimaced at the harsh memories of the past two years. “Precious little, I assure you. Thankfully that is all in the past.“

  A hint of contentment settled about the housekeeper. “And Calvert tells me that we have a guest.”

  “Yes, indeed, a Mr. Lockmeade.”

  “How long shall the gendeman be staying?”

  “For as long as I can convince him to remain. Which, unfortunately, will probably not be for long.”

  “Will there be any other guests joining us?”

  “Good God, I hope not,” Simon retorted. His brief stay in London after returning from Italy had been quite enough socializing for Simon. Odd for a gentleman who had once spent the majority of the year in London.

  “I see.” Mrs. King allowed only a small flicker of disappointment to show before giving a decisive nod of her head. “I will see to your tea.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. King.“

  Simon watched as the older woman left the room, then turned back toward the open French doors. The inviting afternoon sunshine lured him onto the paved terrace, and within moments he wandered toward the shallow steps. It was the distant sound of raised voices that had him turning toward the far side of the garden, and he gave a sudden exclamation at the sight of the two figures just beyond the hedge.

  “What the devil?”

  More curious than alarmed, Simon marched along the narrow path toward the intruders. Within moments he had recognized the large, grisly steward he had hired before buying his commission, but it was the slender maiden with glossy raven curls and entrancing blue eyes that captured his attention.

  She was exquisite, he acknowledged. Such delicately carved features and skin of the purest silk. Even with her hands planted on her hips and a frown marring her brow she made his blood quicken. A dark-haired angel that he fully intended to become better acquainted with.

  Coming to a halt, Simon regarded the two with raised brows. “Foster, would you care to explain what is occurring?”

  Two heads turned to regard him with varying degrees of surprise. Foster was the first to recover as his thick features reddened while the unknown maiden merely allowed her glare to shift to him.

  “Oh . . . my lord.” The steward gave a hasty bow. “Welcome home.”

  “Is something the matter?”

  “Nothing of importance, my lord.”

  “Nothing of importance?” The woman gave a sharp noise of disapproval. “You consider allowing cottages to fall into ruin as nothing of importance?”

  Simon blinked, uncertain of what he had expected. He had sensed the two had been arguing but certainly not about cottages.

  “What?”

  The steward gave a nervous laugh. “The lady exaggerates, my lord.”

  “Ha. I have just come from the Andersons’, where a portion of their wall gave way and nearly injured their baby,” the lady accused.

  Foster’s flush deepened. “Absurd.”

  “I suppose you also claim that it is absurd that Mrs. Foley is more in hope of remaining dry by standing beneath a tree than in her own home?”

  “This ain’t be none of your concern,” Foster growled, clearly furious with the audacious chit.

  Decidedly confused by the odd encounter, Simon turned toward the strange maiden. Beautiful she might be, but she had no right to trespass upon his land and accuse his steward of neglecting his duties.

  “Frankly, I must agree with my steward, miss . . . ?”

  Undaunted, the woman narrowed her glittering gaze.

  “Unfortunately I am not surprised.”

  Simon’s brows arched even higher. “Pardon me?”

  “Clearly you are indifferent to your estate if you are willing to leave it in the hands of this pitiful, wholly incompetent fooL”

  “Now, see here ...” Foster sputtered.

  Simon’s own gaze narrowed. Although not overly puffed up with his own importance, Simon was nevertheles
s accustomed to a degree of respect for his position and wealth. He was rather annoyed by the woman‘s sharp insult.

  “Foster, perhaps you should go about your duties.”

  “But, my lord . . .”

  “We will discuss this later,” he assured the disgruntled steward.

  There was no mistaking the authority in Simon’s tone, and with a covert glare at the slender intruder the servant gave a reluctant nod of his head.

  “Very well.”

  Simon waited until Foster had stomped toward the distant greenhouse before turning to stab the woman with a piercing gaze.

  “Now, miss. Perhaps you would not mind explaining your presence on my estate?” Blue eyes, as blue as an Italian sky, met his gaze squarely.

  “I am here out of concern for your tenants,” she announced in firm tones. “A concern, Lord Challmond, you clearly do not share.”

  Simon’s annoyance deepened at the chit’s accusations. What the devil did she know of his concern or lack of concern?

  “I fail to comprehend how you could have the least notion of whether I am concerned or not for my tenants, considering that I have returned to Westwood Park less than an hour ago.”

  Expecting the lady to wilt beneath his chiding tone, he was caught off guard when her hands returned to her hips in a defiant motion.

  “That is precisely the point. If you cared, you would reside here and tend to their needs.”

  Why, the bold little jade, he thought with a flare of exasperated humor.

  “In case you are thoroughly witless, please allow me to inform you that a devious little Corsican by the name of Napoleon has been ravaging the Continent.”

  A delightful hint of color bloomed beneath her pale skin at his mocking words.

  “I am well aware of Napoleon, my lord,” she gritted out. “I am also aware that you left Oxford and headed straight for London, where you remained until buying your commission. In the meantime, Mr. Foster has managed to thoroughly abuse his position and what few loyal tenants you still possess live in conditions unfit for your livestock.”

  A sudden absurd flare of guilt rushed through Simon. It was true he had handed complete control of his estate to Mr. Foster. And that his attentions had been more devoted to the pleasures of London than to the condition of his cottages. But he certainly had no intention of being lectured for his behavior by this pint-sized termagant.

  With a deliberate manner he lowered his gaze to the mud clinging to the hem of her pale lemon gown.

  “Do you happen to be one of my tenants?” he politely inquired.

  She caught her breath at his insult but refused to back down.

  “Thankfully, no.”

  “Then, why are you so interested in their welfare?”

  “They are human beings with the right to expect a decent home and food on their table.”

  “Certainly. Which is precisely what I ordered Foster to provide,” he retorted. Did she think that he would intentionally wish to see his tenants neglected?

  The blue eyes flashed. “Well, he failed miserably.”

  “If that is the case, then I shall soon have it set to right.” He made a silent promise to make a thorough inspection of the estate the next morning. He was beginning to suspect that there was more to this woman’s ranting than simply being a bit daft. “But you still have not answered my question.”

  “Question?”

  “Who are you?”

  There was a momentary pause before she heaved a reluctant sigh. “Miss Blakewell.”

  “Blakewell?” Simon widened his eyes in surprise. This was Miss Blakewell? This was the grubby young girl who had once punched the squire’s son when he had laughed at Simon’s tears? The girl with tangled curls and a dirtsmudged countenance? Who the devil would have suspected such beauty hid beneath the dust? “Good God . . . Claire the Cat.”

  The now-lovely features hardened at the childish nickname. It had been given to her by the neighborhood boys who had been intimidated by her ready temper and habit of leaping to the defense of the vulnerable, whether it be a wounded bird or homesick young lad. It was an insult rarely said to her face, since she had bloodied more than one nose for lesser offenses.

  Now her lips tightened, but she managed to resist the impulse to plant him a facer. “I would prefer, my lord, if you did not refer to me by that hateful name.”

  Simon gave a sudden smile at her attempt to maintain a dignified composure. Well, well. Claire Blakewell. This was certainly a pleasant surpnse.

  “You have . . . changed,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on the decided curve beneath the dark yellow pelisse.

  “I should think so,” she retorted in tart tones. “It has been, after all, nearly ten years since we last spoke.”

  He gave a low chuckle, his emerald eyes dancing. “Of course, some things never change. Your tongue remains as sharp as ever.”

  She seemed to catch her breath at his boyish grin, then surprisingly her expression hardened with disapproval.

  “And you are just as reluctant to shoulder the duties of Lord Challmond as you were at twelve.”

  Simon’s smile abruptly faded. Damn, the woman was far too ready to strike where he was most vulnerable.

  “Neither my duties nor my tenants are any of your concern.”

  “Then, you will do nothing to ease their suffering?”

  “What I will do is return to the house for a warm bath and dinner with my guest. Tomorrow I will ride out and speak with my tenants.” Simon was at his most arrogant. “I have little doubt I shall find them quite content.”

  Claire displayed all the stubborn tenacity she had possessed as a child. “You shall find them ill used and quite terrified of Mr. Foster.”

  Unable to deny her accusations without further proof, Simon was forced to content himself with a negligent shrug.

  “Time will tell. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe that Cook has prepared my favorite scones. She at least is pleased to have me back in Devonshire.”

  Miss Blakewell smiled without humor. “‘There are stranger things in heaven and earth . . .’ ” she quoted, then gave a toss of her head. “Good day, my lord.“

  Uncertain whether to laugh or be infuriated by the unexpected encounter, Simon was on the point of turning back to the house, when he realized that Miss Blakewell was inexplicablyalone.

  “Did you come here on your own?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Have you no sense?” he demanded in exasperation. He had been right in his first impression, he told himself. She was daft. “A young lady does not gad about the countryside without a groom or at least her maid.”

  Her chin tilted to a defiant angle. “I have been gadding about, as you put it, since I was able to walk.”

  That was true enough. Mr. Blakewell had always given his headstrong daughter far too much freedom.

  “You are no longer a scrapegrace child,” he pointed out in stern tones. “There are dangers for a young maiden that only a fool would ignore.”

  She at least possessed the grace to blush. “I do not need lectures on my behavior from a known rake, Lord Challmond.”

  “Why, you hellion,” Simon breathed, caught between the desire to shake some sense into her and kiss her. Stepping forward, he grasped her upper arms. “I should teach you a lesson in placing yourself at the mercy of scoundrels.”

  The magnificent eyes darkened, but her courage never failed. “Unhand me.”

  Knowing he was behaving badly, Simon was nevertheless unable to resist the temptation to taste the delicate softness of ·her lips. He felt her shiver and pulled her closer, his heart racing at the sweet innocence of her mouth. She was sunshine and honey, with a scent of lilac that was stirring a heat in his thighs. His lips pressed even deeper as he forgot he was merely teaching her a lesson in the dangers of men. It was not until he heard Claire give a low moan that he returned to his senses. With a silent curse he pulled back and gazed down at her flushed features.

  “Lo
rd Challmond . . . how dare you?” she at last managed to croak.

  Simon wasn’t certain how he dared, but he did know he was not remotely sorry for his shameful behavior. Indeed, he very much wished he possessed the nerve to do it again.

  “It was a simple kiss, Miss Blakewell.” He smiled with wry amusement. “Now perhaps you will consider the consequences of your willful behavior.”

  Unlike the dozens of young maidens Simon had encountered who would have fainted at his audacity, or coyly invited further attentions, Claire seared him with a blazing glare.

  “Tend to your tenants, Lord Challmond. They are in need of your attentions. I most certainly am not.”

  Turning on her heel, Claire marched past the hedge and disappeared. Standing in the garden, Simon gave a slow shake of his head.

  Damnation, she was a most lovely creature.

  Unbidden, the memory of the Gypsy brushing his forehead with a rose flashed through his mind.

  True love awaited him. . . .

  Fah.

  The only thing that awaited him was a warm bath and his favorite scones.

  Two

  Claire was in a fine temper.

  Storming across the wide meadow that marched Westwood Park with the Blakewell estate, she brooded on Lord Challmond’s audacious behavior.

  How dare he?

  She was no common tart in search of a protector. Or, worse, a London sophisticate wishing for a dalliance with the notorious rake. She was a respectable maiden with no interest in stolen kisses.

  With a sharp motion she raised her hand to scrub her lips that still tingled from his touch. She did not want to consider the renegade flare of pleasure that had trembled through her body or the manner her heart had raced with excitement. She had been caught off guard. It was nothing more than shock that had caused her strange reactions.

  Still, the sensible explanation did nothing to erase the lingering heat of his mouth or the memory of his boyishly charming features. How he had changed, she thought with an odd shiver. She could still recall the sad-eyed lad with too-large ears and a habit of hiding in the stables. She could also recall the hint of wounded vulnerability that had drawn her to him.

  Nothing at all like the attractive, sophisticated and all-too-arrogant gentleman she had just encountered.