The Unintended Bride
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by
Kelly McClymer
Copyright 2001 © Kelly McClymer
Cover Copyright 2011 © Julie Ortolon
First published by Zebra Books, July 2001
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Dedication
This book is lovingly dedicated to Jim, Kristen, A.J. and Brendan, who put up with my distractibility, preoccupation, highs, lows and a few burned dinners while I created it. All thanks belong to the amazing group of women who helped me polish this manuscript to a shine: Yvonne, Kathy, Trudy, Lynn and Jackie.
"The manuscript is more precious than you can ever know. You must guard it well until the true owner returns for it.”
The fire hissed and crackled on the grate for a moment, loud in the silence. "But if he is to be reborn in a different body, how will I know?"
"The flesh does not matter. It is the spirit within that counts. The one himself will give you a sign."
"But‚ — " The burning log shifted on the fire with a startling thump, and there was another momentary silence. "What if he does not come? It has been so many centuries now since Malory placed his manuscript in our ancestors care."
"He will come!" Silence. A soft sigh. "I know we have waited long for him. Still, I feel he will come during your time at watch. Britain needs him as she has never needed him before — her enemies breathe upon her very neck. Wait for the sign — and do not be fooled by pretenders, no matter how clever they might be."
"And if he does not come while I live? What then?"
"When your life is nearing an end, then you will do as I am doing now, and pass on the guardianship to one who deserves it. Your son, I hope."
"And if I have no son?"
"You must. There is no one left of our line, our blood. No one who can guard the pages with the same loyalty we have. You will have a son, and you will teach him well so that he can take up the task if — " Silence once more. A sigh. "It is a precious package you guard, remember that and protect it well."
"With my life." Fervent hands clutched tight around the wrapped package of precious, fragile pages. “With my life. No one will have the book until he proves himself worthy of being recognized as the true, reborn Arthur — King of Camelot, wielder of Excalibur.”
No one.
London, 1843
Arthur steadied himself in the poorly sprung coach and read the note over again, his grip tighter than it needed to be.
I have the manuscript that will end your quest. Peebles Bookshop. Tuesday. Four o'clock sharp. Be late and you shall
never
find what you seek.
There was no signature, and he did not recognize the handwriting, yet he had dropped all to come to London at once. Some might laugh at the melodrama implicit in the short sentences, but he did not. He had been following rumors of this particular book since he was a lad learning tales of knights and ladies at his grandmother's knee.
Most of the time he scoffed at the idea that the original manuscript of Malory's
Le Morte d'Artur
had survived nearly five hundred years, a rumor that the Round Table Society liked to encourage out of perversity. But some part of him hoped it was true — why else would he pursue each lead as if he might one day end up with the manuscript pages in his very hands?
He looked out the window. The carriage had slowed and occasionally even stopped in the thickening traffic. He was in London proper now and would soon be at his destination.
Today was Monday. He had deliberately arrived a day early. Nothing would make him miss this meeting.
He expected that the duke and duchess would not be put out with his abrupt decision to visit. After all, hadn't Miranda written to invite him several times? He had not come; he had not thought it wise. It was the height of the Season and no doubt Hero would be staying with them in town. Looking for a husband. Or perhaps she had found one this year? Would it make him less miserable, to know she was taken at last? She deserved to find a good husband. Have children.
He considered finding lodging somewhere else, informing no one he was in town. But no, he had little choice. If Kerstone found that he had traveled London without a visit to the family, he would be mightily affronted. And there were many who would let the duke know his heir apparent had been spotted about London.
Arthur folded the note and put it safely away. Hero of all people would appreciate the exciting news represented by the mysterious message. But should he tell her? Though there was no warning against telling others about the meeting in the note, the abrupt tone suggested caution.
Even as he debated, caught between imagining how Hero's cheeks would flush with delight at the intrigue implicit in the note and the idea that he must once again endure her company without allowing himself to reveal how he felt about her, it was the sweetest torture he could imagine.
Perhaps it would be best not to tell her about the note. It would definitely be best not to see her, but in that matter he had no choice. He could not avoid her; Miranda would notice at once. Though he adored his cousin's wife, her curiosity, once aroused, could not be lulled by excuses or evasions. She would have the truth out of him. And that he could not allow.
As it was, he would have to face his grandmother's sharp queries if she were to discover he had come to London. If his business was concluded swiftly, he might even avoid the need to visit the Delagrace residence at all. If he was unfortunate enough to encounter them, which would entail an explanation, he would simply tell them he had intended to call the very next day. His grandmother would know better, but she would say nothing to either Delagrace.
He had been clear with her about his long-expected marriage to Gwen Delagrace. His grandmother must give the girl an entire season to entertain beaux. He had hoped that Gwen might contract a marriage even more to her father's liking. But his grandmother had thwarted that attempt, so he had heard from friends. She had dropped the private family agreement into the gossip circles, and let it isolate Gwen from any possible suitors.
He touched his pocket, feeling the shape of the letter. He knew he should not expect this cryptic note to lead him to the manuscript any more than any of the other clues he had followed to dead ends. But he could not help the quickening of his heartbeat. What if this time the letter held the truth? What if he had finally found the manuscript he sought? What would it change? He shared the name with the fabled king but not the warrior nature, nor the legendary destiny.
Sometimes he wished he could change his name to something simpler like Edward or John. They were kings as well, but their name did not conjure up the legendary greatness that Arthur's did. The same legendary greatness his grandmother seemed to expect from him, for some unfathomable reason. He couldn't help a snort of amusement. Arthur Watterly, the legendary what? Scholar? His weapons were books, and he wielded them for answers to questions, not to lead a kingdom of warrior knights.
All the books he had read, and none gave him answers to all the questions rattling about in his head. Could he truly be the man to find the lost manuscript? And if he was, would that free him of the need for Fenwell Delagrace's patronage, and the obligation his grandmother had made to unite the families in marriage? Was it wrong of him to hope that Hero Fenster had not yet been spoken for, just in case this manuscript proved his scholarly Excalibur?
* * * * *
Hero was determined that Digby would not catch her alone today. When she saw his card on the silver tray the footman held out, she flashed a panicked look at Juliet. "I feel ill." She rose and turned to the door like a cornered hare.
Juliet raised a cool brow and smirked. "Why you fear that adorable man, I cannot imagine, Hero. You must put him out of his misery soon."
She thought of Digby, handsome, scholarly, sincere. "I don't fear him, Juliet. I simply don't know that I feel as strongly as he does."
"What does that matter? He is by far the most promising man to pay you court in the four years you have been on the market. String him along until you find someone who does make that stubborn heart of yours beat faster."
"I would never behave so odiously! Digby is a good man." The truth was, Hero enjoyed talking with Digby, and they shared many interests: a love of the world's literature in its original Latin, Greek, French. He could translate Old English even better than she, and they frequently had entirely enjoyable debates over the pronunciation of some obscure word. But he was not the husband she wanted, and only common sense made her hesitate to be so final in her judgment.
"Good perhaps. Handsome, certainly." Juliet nodded to the confused footman. "We will see him." For Hero's ears only, she murmured, "But boring, or I would have long ago offered to take him off your hands for you."
Maybe she was simply not destined for love. Maybe she should settle for warmth and companionship? The thought was not appealing. Hero could not help the plaintive note in her voice as she asked quickly, "Could you not — "
Her sister stopped admiring the flare of her new skirt and raised her head to pin Hero with a stare. "So it is odious for you to toy with the man but not for me to pretend an interest I do not have?" Juliet's eyes flashed with pique or amusement, it was not quite clear which. "One would quite think you had already given your heart away."
"My heart is my own, I have given it to no one." Hero felt herself flush at the accurate barb. "It is not as if you do not break dozens of hearts each Season. Why should one more bother you?" She heard her own words with horror. "It is not as if I'm asking you to break his heart — only distract it a little, until I can decide what it is I want — or until the right woman for him passes under his nose and he forgets about me altogether."
"I'm afraid I'm already engaged today — to distract that adorable young Lord Wyndham. Who is dreadfully late, I must say." Juliet laughed as she glanced at the door, though Hero could see she worried Wyndham might not visit. "And anyway, you've already paraded half the eligible misses in London past Mr. Digby and he still seems to want only you, for some unfathomable reason. I don't know if you'll be able to avoid breaking his heart much longer — unless you agree to marry him."
"I cannot — "
"Then you will have to live up to that foolish name Papa gave you and tell him so directly." Juliet patted her hand in a surprisingly empathetic moment. "If anyone can find a way to do so kindly, you should be able to, Hero."
Hero could not answer, as the gentleman in question arrived in the room, his face carrying a smile, his eyes alight with a passion that she wished she could douse as quickly and efficiently as a bucket of water put out a burning candle. Her father should have chosen a different name from his beloved works of Shakespeare for her. Or better yet, Timidity would have suited her best.