The Rejected Suitor (24 page)

"That
after I do, you will leave."

His eyes
studied her with an intensity that burned through her very soul. "There is
only one way I am going to leave here, Emily." Her heart gave a sudden
lurch. "And that's with you."

Before
she could reply, he tipped her farther toward the courtyard where a sea of
yellow flowers fluttered about the grounds like golden butterflies flitting in
the wind.

She
gasped. "Daffodils. There must be hundreds of them." Her throat
tightened with emotion. "They're beautiful."

He
pressed his lips against hers, then pulled away. "As your man Wordsworth
would say, my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils. I love
you, Emily. Marry me, sweetheart. I was wrong to have kept the truth from
you."

"Oh,
Jared."

"Ah,
sweetheart. I have been such a fool keeping my life from you. My pride almost
killed our love. Marry me and my daughter. Take us all. I need you." There
was a strangled sound to his voice when he spoke. "Desperately."

Tears
pricked her eyes. "But what of Lord Bringston?"

His face
went taut. "The man will survive. I heard his brother is to marry soon.
His obligation for an heir should ease. But never mind Bringston, I must warn
you that if you do not accept my proposal, your good friend Agatha suggested
kidnapping as an alternative."

A smile
pulled at her mouth. "Kidnapping?"

His
brows raised in a challenging stare. "You think I jest? I will have you
know there is a post chaise and four near the stables awaiting my command at
this very moment."

He let
her feet slip to the floor, keeping her body pressed close to his, and his gaze
softened. "So I ask you, my love, will you go with me on a journey that
will last you a lifetime?"

A wave
of happiness flowed through her. "I do love you, Jared. With all my
heart."

"And
I love you, my dear, sweet Emily." He slid his hand behind the windowsill
and smiled. "I have something for you."

When he
placed a bright yellow daffodil in her hand and closed his strong, tapered
fingers over hers, Emily swallowed, too emotional to speak. Tears flooded her
eyes.

He
brought their binding grip against her breast and gazed into her eyes.
"Let your heart no longer hold the shadows of yesterday, but only the
promise of tomorrow."

She
leaned toward him and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him, reclaiming his lips, his
heart, his love. All that she had hoped to ever hold was now hers. She lifted
her mouth the exact moment the door whipped open, sounding like cannon fire.
Her jaw dropped in shock at the sight of her four brothers and Lord Bringston
walking stiffly into the room.

"Morning,
gentlemen." Jared's voice was loud and clear as he possessively slipped
his hand around her waist.

Emily
never loved him more than at that moment. And to think she had called him a
coward.

"What
the devil is going on here?" Roderick asked, his eyes snapping at Jared's
possessive hold on his sister.

Without
hesitation, Jared stepped toward the five gentlemen, allowing his hold on Emily
to ease. Not to be left behind, she followed, sliding her hand in Jared's.
Strong fingers engulfed hers in a feeling so wonderful she felt the world
spinning out of control, and she loved every minute of it.

Roderick
raised his right brow in accusation. "What do you have to say for
yourself, Stonebridge?"

"Say
for myself?" Jared's sardonic expression worried Emily. This was not the
way to go about appeasing her brothers.

"Jared,"
she said nervously.

"Hush,
love." He smiled at the gentlemen. "Does this answer your
question?" He swiftly swung Emily into his arms and kissed her soundly.

Her body
molded to his. She became lost in his touch, oblivious to the horrified
expressions of her onlookers.

The kiss
was so thorough that even Stephen had turned around in embarrassment. "By
Jove, have you no decency?"

Jared
pulled back at the remark, his eyes twinkling with delight. "Not where
your sister is concerned."

Roderick's
hands clenched, but before he could move, a soft wind blew through the
bedchamber windows bringing in a stream of bright yellow petals floating like a
whisper from heaven.

"What
the devil?" Roderick glared at the petals surrounding his feet.

Emily
raised her head to the sweet smell of the flowers and lifted a hand to the
locket resting on her neck. "Papa loved daffodils, too, you know,"
she said to Jared.

Jared's
smile reached deep into her heart. "I know."

Emily's
throat ached with love for this man, for she knew without a doubt that Jared
had finally forgiven her father for his part in their separation.

"Emily,
pay attention here." Roderick slapped the palm of his hand to his hip.
"Because of this compromising position we find you in, you have no choice
but to marry Lord Stonebridge."

Emily
stiffened at the command. She would no longer have Roderick or any man demand
her to do anything ever again. "How dare you tell me what to do. I will
not m—"

Jared
stopped her tirade by placing his lips against hers in another demanding kiss.
After what seemed too short by Emily's standards, Jared pulled away and turned
toward her brothers. "I agree. We should marry immediately."

Emily
stared, tongue-tied. In fact, she almost completely forgot about Lord Bringston
until he stepped forward and gently took hold of her hand, his eyes smiling.
"Lady Emily, I feel our future is not to be, is it? But I believe this is
best."

Emily
kissed the marquess on the cheek. "I am certain you will find someone
else, William."

Scowling,
Jared pulled the two apart. "William? Now, that is improper."

Stephen
snorted. "Hell's Bells. William, Bringston, stepfather, whatever we call
him, it will be all in the family."

"Stepfather?"
Emily looked at Stephen and frowned. "What are you babbling about
now?"

Stephen
put a hand to his mouth and yawned. "This plan of yours, Roderick, is
going extremely slow. Should have done things my way. Let us get on with it,
shall we?"

"What
plan?" Emily asked, but no one seemed to be listening to her, least of all
Stephen, who kept talking about plans and Gentleman Jackson's and special
licenses.

"I
daresay," Stephen said, "if everything is set, we can all venture out
of this room and see to the double wedding in no time." He eyed Roderick.
"We can fill Emily in downstairs."

Emily
caught the wink Stephen sent Jared, and a disturbing suspicion took hold of
her. "For some reason I feel I have been had." She glared at the five
men retreating from her room.

Jared
laughed, wrapping a strong arm around her waist, jerking her toward him.
"Not had, just overpowered. I have a special license in my pocket. We can
be married today. Good thing your family is friends with the archbishop."

Emily's
heart skipped a beat. "Today?" She stared into twinkling amber eyes
and could barely speak from the happy tears that clogged her throat.

 Chuckling,
Jared fingered the flower in her hand and swept her like a feather into his
arms. "I will love you longer than forever. I believe from the first day I
saw you, I loved you."

Overcome
with emotion, Emily buried her face against his cravat. "Oh, Jared, you
say the sweetest things." And then she started to giggle.

He
stared back, confused. "Are you laughing at me?"

She
looked up, horrified. "Oh, no."

He
frowned. "What? Tell me?" He stretched his neck. "Is my cravat
soaked from your tears?"

Emily's
eyes danced with amusement. "No, but I do believe Mr. Fennington may need
a hand at the window."

Jared
spun around, dropping Emily to her feet. "The devil, I will kill that
man!"

Emily
bent over and laughed. Jared stopped in midstride and spun back around.
"Why, you little vixen. There is no Mr. Fennington, is there?"

Emily
staggered back. "Now, Jared, 'twas only a jest. We are even now. You with
the license, me with Mr. Fennington."

He
marched toward her, seeming to enjoy her struggle. "You call that even?
There is no even here, madam."

Laughing,
she backed up toward the open door and ran into the hall, her wedding dress
rustling against her legs. Before she could go three steps, a strong arm lifted
her high into the air, spinning her around to face him.

"You,
my Silver Fox, will never be boring."

She fell
against him, his lips recapturing hers, sending her pulse pounding.

At the
foot of the stairs, Stephen glanced up at the kissing couple and smiled. He
turned to Roderick and jabbed the duke in the ribs. "You planning to leave
old Fennington tied up in the pantry the entire day?"

Roderick
narrowed his eyes at the struggling man being dragged down the hall, his mouth
stuffed with a wedding napkin and his hands and feet tied like a cooked pig, a
trail of daffodils lingering in his wake.

"If
I let the stupid chap out, Jared might shoot him this time. Stroke of luck he
missed seeing the fool only minutes ago."

Stephen
dropped his gaze, flipping Fennington's opulent quizzing glass from palm to
palm. "Monstrous piece of glass. The man is more of a nuisance than Beau
Brummell."

"Who?
Stonebridge or Fennington?"

Stephen
laughed. "I daresay, we will find out soon enough." Cupping his hands
around his mouth, Stephen shouted up the stairs at the kissing couple.
"Vicar is waiting in the chapel! As is my bet at White's. Hurry up you
two, so I may collect! "

Roderick
stood back, horrified. "Your bet at White's?"

A pair
of twinkling brown eyes laughed back at Roderick. "Quite so. If those two
marry by tomorrow, I will be twenty thousand pounds richer. All the merrier for
me, I daresay."

Roderick
looked ready to spit fire. "You traitor. You had this all planned out from
the very start."

Stephen
backed up against the wall, his gaze alight with amusement. "Now, now,
your mighty dukeness, you might want to consider marrying Miss Greenwell in the
next two weeks, for if you do, I could make another ten thousand pounds. Think
of it as helping out your younger brother. What say you to that?"

Roderick
grabbed Stephen by the cravat. "I'll have your hide when this is
over."

"Ah,
here come the lovebirds now." Stephen rolled his eyes toward the stairs
and lowered his voice. "Better drop the dukie act."

Eyes
burning with rage, Roderick released him as Jane came into the hall. "We
are not done with this, little brother."

"Good
gracious, he's only jesting, Roderick," Emily said with a laugh as she
hurried down the stairs with Jared by her side. "Don't be so dukie."

"Yes,
Roderick," Jared said sternly, "Don't be so dukie."

"Thunder
and turf! I am not dukie!"

Laughing,
Jared swept Emily into his arms and strode into the courtyard of Elbourne Hall,
where a trail of soft, yellow petals led the way to the rest of their lives.

A dog
barked. A little girl squealed. And Fennington was gagged in the pantry. Jared
felt his heart swell. All was right with the world.

THE WAGERED BRIDE

-Book 2-

The
Clearbrook Series

Excerpt, Copyright
© Teresa McCarthy, 2004

All rights
reserved

Chapter One

L
ord Stephen Clearbrook leaned back in
his chair, studying the cards on the leather-topped table before him, when
suddenly the hint of rich tobacco teased his nostrils. Irritation spurted
through his veins at the pungent odor.

The
smell had never bothered him before, but the Spanish cigar habit had gained
momentum in London Society ever since the war with Napoleon, and blast it all,
the wartime vice resurrected memories Stephen would rather forget.

With the
grace of a gentleman about to win a good deal of money, Stephen casually
gathered his hand and raised his wineglass to his lips. He tipped the drink
back, letting the sweet red liquid trickle down his throat as if he had not a
care in the world. And if that were the cursed truth, Napoleon was the sainted
king of England.

As
Stephen dared another glance at his cards, his hand tightened on his empty
glass.

"More
wine, my lord?" the cheerful voice uttered from across the table that was
tucked in a darkened corner at Baxley's Gaming Hell.

Lifting
a cool brown gaze, Stephen eyed William Shelby's fat white hands tapping
against the table while a neatly rolled cigar hung carelessly between the man's
stubby fingers.

"I
am immune to wine, Shelby. Two bottles or three, I am as sane as when I walked
in here."

Two
shaggy white brows drew together in thought. "Certainly, my lord.
Certainly. Ain't wanting you to lose on account of a few drinks, now, would
we?"

 Ignoring
the comment, Stephen followed through with his discards, playing out his hand.

The
ticking of the mantel clock was barely heard over the murmur of the gaming
tables spread throughout the room. Faro, piquet, whist, vingt-et-un, and a
variety of other amusements hovered in the distance, but every bit of Stephen's
concentration was on the two-man game being played at his table.

When the
last of the cards were laid to rest, Stephen showed no outward sign of disgust.

Across
from him, Shelby shook his head regretfully and sighed. "Ain't one to take
things from a lord, don't you know, but the game was as fair as any gentleman could
want."

Stephen
calmly slipped the deed from his coat pocket and handed it to the man without a
word. Earlier this week, Stephen's solicitor had thought to take a look at the
deed to make certain all was in order, and now, it seemed Stephen would no longer
be depositing the papers in the family vault as planned.

It
surprised Stephen the way Shelby seemed to relish the win, as if the man had
secured his entire fortune in one sweep of his hand. But the cit was as rich as
Croesus. He didn't need a pound of Stephen's money or his land.

"Hear
tell Creighton Hall is a prime estate." Shelby's eyes gleamed with
appreciation as he pressed the papers to his protruding stomach. "Good
hunting, they say."

The
man's fleshy lips suddenly took a downward turn. "See here, the duke ain't
going to come after me, now, will he?"

Stephen's
eyes narrowed dangerously. "My brother is not the owner of my life or
Creighton Hall, Shelby. The property is not entailed. It belonged to me through
my maternal grandmother, if that is what you fear."

Shelby
clapped his hands together and patted his prominent belly. "Then, I
daresay it will make a nice addition to my holdings, now, won't it?"

It was
all Stephen could do to hold his tongue. How the man knew Stephen was carrying
the papers to the family property he would never know. Had he made mention of
it at the club, or perhaps Newmarket? He had no idea, but somehow Shelby had
already been informed of the fact when they sat down to play. But it was
Stephen who had made the stupid wager and lost, not Shelby.

"Your
lordship ain't going to call me out or something like that, are you?"

Stephen
cracked his knuckles and leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs
beneath the table. It was amusing that Shelby harbored thoughts of a duel between
the two of them. It was absurd, really.

At four
and twenty, Stephen was known to be the most carefree of all the Clearbrook
males. It could almost be said that his easygoing nature was epitomized by the
casual manner in which he wore his cravat. Nothing mathematical about it. Even
his wavy chestnut hair fell over one eye, suggesting his approach to life.
Simple and relaxed.

But his
handsome profile boasted of an inner strength and power not to be ignored by
the most confident of men. Moreover, a willful stubbornness lay in the square
cut of his chin and the firm set of his lips. His nose was what most Englishmen
would call perfect—a Roman nose, many called it. His eyes were dark with
touches of humor lines fanning about the surrounding skin, making him appear
fetching, his sister would say.

He knew
most women found his charm appealing, but some men perceived that beneath his
easygoing exterior lay a cunning intelligence that was not to be dismissed.
Even Wellington himself had found the youngest of the Clearbrook brothers
prodigiously useful during Napoleon's fall at Waterloo.

Though
nothing seemed amiss with Stephen's appearance, upon closer scrutiny, one could
detect a cold logic in his brown gaze, a sign to the more discriminating that
said Lord Stephen Clearbrook stood acutely aware of his surroundings.

In fact,
Stephen had always been good at hiding his innermost turmoil, and it seemed
that precise trait was working for him now. He would have to buy the place back
as soon as his business venture with Lord Brule came through.

"Exactly
what kind of man do you think I am, Shelby?"

The
older man drummed his fingers against the table, the dying cigar all but
forgotten. "Ain't one to meddle with the fourth son of a duke. You know, I
ain't looking for trouble."

Stephen
quirked a brow and waved his hand for a servant to pour him a glass of brandy.
"My birth has nothing to do with this. The cards were what talked tonight,
not my peerage."

After
letting the fiery liquid slide down his throat, Stephen peered over the rim of
his drink, giving Shelby his most brilliant smile. "Men lose at cards all
the time, my good man."

Surprise,
along with a hint of confusion, seemed to flicker in the older man's eyes at
Stephen's response. Shelby bared his yellow teeth and pushed away from the
table to stand. "You ain't one to shrivel from a loss, are you, my
lord?"

Stephen
said nothing, his discerning gaze intently studying the man. After serving with
Wellington during the war, Stephen recognized the gleam in Shelby's eyes for what
it was, pure, unadulterated greed. Yet, there seemed to be something more....

"
'Course, if you're hoping to retrieve this"—Shelby patted the papers
tucked beside his tight-fitting waistcoat—"I will be attending Lord
Harmstead's ball next week. Always a game to be had there." A flash of
hunger appeared in the man's gray eyes that sent a twist of warning to
Stephen's gut. "Perhaps you might want to wager, hmmm, something else, my
lord?"

Stephen
knew he should cut his losses and buy the place back later, but the more he
thought about it, the more he realized that his mother would never forgive him
for losing Creighton Hall in such a manner, and he would never forgive himself.
After his father's death, his mother had remarried and was much happier now. He
wouldn't puncture that bubble of happiness for the world. Although he might not
be able to wait for his money to come in before his mother found out about the
matter.

"Another
high-stakes game?" he asked Shelby, considering it as a possibility.

The fat
man's gaze glittered expectantly. "Indeed. But cash on the barrel, mind
you. No notes accepted."

Stephen's
brow rose in surprise. "No debts taken at the table? How very
unconventional. An easy mark for a thief, I would venture."

"The
footmen will be armed. Of course, I don't take you for a coward, my lord. I do
have contacts at Whitehall. Heard you saved Wellington's life at
Waterloo."

Stephen
stiffened. "You have eyes everywhere, Shelby."

No one
in Stephen's family had a notion of the extent to which he knew Wellington. His
eldest brother might have had an inkling, but as to the other two, they
probably had no idea. Once at a ball, his own mother had introduced him to
Wellington as if the two had never met. Stephen had never batted an eye.

"Indeed,
but that don't change the fact that you are a brave man, your lordship. Not
many men would put themselves between Wellington and a Frenchman's rifle, no
matter what the cost."

"A
ball nicking one's thigh was small payment for the freedom of our country,
Shelby, and I would consider it a favor if you kept the incident to
yourself."

Shelby
heaved an appreciative sigh. "A war hero you are, and humble, too. Heard
the ball went clean through you. But never fear, my lips are shut, always have
been. There are those at Whitehall who would have my head. But you'll do."

Do for
what? Stephen was stunned to know the man knew about secrets he would rather
keep quiet. Playing the war hero was something Stephen had never felt
comfortable with. And a hero he was not, even if he had saved Wellington's life
and sent the attacker to prison.

He spun
his brandy glass between his fingers. "As for Harmstead's ball, I fear
next week I go to Brighton. Regent's party and all that, you know."

"Suit
yourself, my lord."

Stephen
saw the flash of disappointment that crossed the elder man's face and wondered
what else was hidden behind the dangerous glint in those intelligent eyes.

He
regarded Shelby as the man lit another cigar from one of the flickering candles
resting on the table. It had been a bad night for cards, that was all. At the
Harmstead ball, he would repossess Creighton Hall within an hour of playing
with this rich cit. Just a little more baiting, and the pot would be his.

"Of
course, Lord Harmstead is a longtime friend of the family," Stephen added,
as if an afterthought. "I have not replied to the invitation yet."

Shelby
placed his hands on the table, leaning forward, the smoke of his cigar swirling
toward the high ceilings like the remnants of a dragon's breath. "I would
give you a chance to regain Creighton Hall. That I can promise you. Heard your
mother is quite fond of the place."

Stephen's
jaw hardened. What else did this man know? Waterloo was one thing, his family
quite another. It seemed money bought many things in this world. "I should
make a point of it, then, shouldn't I?" His lips fell into a twisted
smile.

Shelby's
eyes twinkled with satisfaction. "Good. Good. See you then, my lord."

Stephen
saluted the man with his glass and watched him depart. Now what the deuce was
the old man up to? Creighton Hall was no great estate, and the man had enough
money to line Prinny's pockets. It wasn't as if Stephen had anything more to
lose to the man. Or had he?

Stephen
unfolded his body from his chair and stared at the door, pausing. Shelby was
known to be a shrewd businessman, having made his money by using his brain and
his wit, marching over anyone and anything in his path. A bit like old Boney,
Stephen thought with a bitter tightening in his chest.

He
grabbed the brandy decanter and poured himself another drink. Waterloo. He
would never forget. The blood. The screams. The death. The killing. He had been
on his way to warn Wellington of a spy in the trenches when it happened. The
Frenchie had come out of nowhere.

Stephen
tried to shake the disturbing thoughts from his mind, but they would not let
go. Taking a man's life was something he would never forget. Saving
Wellington's life minutes after the killing had not even lifted his spirits.
Snuffing out a man's life was not something he was proud of.

He
downed his drink in one long swallow and slapped the snifter back onto the
table. No. It wasn't just one man's life snuffed out, it was two—the Frenchie
at Waterloo and his very own father, the duke, at Elbourne Hall.

"Papa,
you cannot mean this."

Elizabeth
Shelby paced the floor of the family's London hotel apartment, not able to
believe her father's words. Wisps of wheat-colored hair, highlighted with
strands of honey blonde, fell about her face as she stopped and looked at her
father's frowning gaze in the gilded mirror across the room.

Tears of
frustration pooled in her intelligent blue eyes, but she refused to let them
fall. Her father had hurt her deeply, and whether he thought he was doing this
in her best interest or not, she could not agree to his plan.

"Papa,
please don't do this to me."