The Wedding Wager
Authors: Elena Greene
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Excerpt from The Incorrigible Lady Catherine
- Also by Elena Greene
- About the Author
The Wedding Wager
Originally in the anthology
His Blushing Bride
,
A Romantic Times Book Reviews Top Pick
Winner, National Readers’ Choice Award for Best Novella
THE WEDDING WAGER
by
Elena Greene
Copyright 2001 by Elena Greene
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Originally published in 2001 by Kensington Publishing, in the anthology
His Blushing Bride
.
Kindle edition, February 2012
Elena Greene
Cover art by Hot Damn Designs
“Harriet! You’re not supposed to laugh when a gentleman proposes marriage.”
“I’m sorry, Julian. I can’t help it; it is too absurd. You must be bosky!” Harry Woodford quelled her laughter and eyed her friend curiously.
Julian had dined with them informally, as he often did while in Kent. He’d only had several glasses of wine with dinner, and he and Papa had not spent much time over their port before rejoining her and Aunt Claudia in their cozy drawing room. Harry also knew that despite his growing reputation as a rake, Julian really didn’t drink more than most men. Still, she couldn’t think of another reason why he would propose to her.
“I’m not the slightest bit foxed,” he insisted, indignation lighting his vivid blue eyes. “I am perfectly serious. Will you marry me?”
“No. I still cannot believe you are asking me. You must be drunk, but don’t worry,” she said in a soothing tone. “I promise to forget what you’ve said by tomorrow morning.”
“I tell you I’m sober as a judge!” he shouted. Harry winced, then looked toward the other end of the room to see if Papa or Aunt Claudia had noticed. Papa looked up from his sporting periodical and gave them a brief, indulgent smile before resuming his reading. Aunt Claudia had fallen asleep over her embroidery, lulled by the warmth of their fire and the sound of a late March rainstorm tapping against the windows.
Then Harriet looked back at Julian. He certainly didn’t
look
as if he were in his cups, she thought, now thoroughly baffled.
“Don’t you see?” he asked, in a slightly calmer tone. “This is an excellent notion, one of the best I’ve ever had.”
“That’s precisely what I
don’t
see,” she replied. “What is this all about? Are you in debt?”
“No, of course not. What do you think, that I’m some sort of fortune-hunter, after your Papa’s money? You ought to know better!”
His look of indignation deepened into outrage, and Harry realized she’d spoken impulsively. It didn’t make sense that Julian would need her fortune; he owned a large estate bordering the Woodfords’ own Kentish estate, and received a very generous allowance from his trustees. Besides, it wasn’t gambling, any more than drinking, that had gained Julian his notoriety.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I spoke without thinking.”
He smiled, and Harriet relaxed. Julian never could stay angry for long.
“If you aren’t in debt, what is it?” she asked.
“I suppose I should explain,” he said, running a hand through his fair hair. It was a sure sign that he was embarrassed. “It’s my uncles,” he continued, and then stopped as if carefully choosing his next words.
“Oh, I see,” she interrupted. “Do you think they will agree to end the trust if you marry?”
“Well, yes,” he replied, looking relieved at her ready grasp of his situation. “You do understand, don’t you?”
Harry nodded. Few persons understood Julian’s circumstances as well as she did.
He had become the fifth Viscount Debenham at the tender age of five years old. Since that time, his uncles had acted as both his guardians and his trustees, with the right to control both Julian’s estate and the considerable Ardleigh fortune until he reached the age of thirty, or such time that they deemed him mature enough to take on the responsibility himself. Unfortunately, the two overzealous old gentlemen still treated Julian as if he were the small, lonely boy they had taken charge of twenty years ago.
Julian usually made light of the situation; only his closest friends, including Harriet, knew how it irked him to hold the title but not be allowed any part in the management of the estate. No doubt his proposal sprang from a desire to impress his uncles with his maturity. Though married, neither of his uncles had children of their own. Morbidly anxious about the succession, they had been plaguing Julian to marry and set up his nursery ever since he had left Cambridge.
“You’re not offended, are you?”
Julian’s anxious words pulled Harry out of her reverie.
“No,” she said with a smile. “Although perhaps I should be. I’m sorry, but I still think the notion of our marrying is preposterous.”
“Don’t you think we’d suit? We’ve been friends forever,” he retorted.
It was perfectly true. The Ardleigh and Woodford lands marched together for miles, and as children, Julian and Harry had happily explored every inch of them together. But, Harry thought a little wistfully, they were no longer children. If Julian hadn’t realized that they had also grown apart a little, she did.
“For that very reason, perhaps,” she replied. “Besides, I haven’t the slightest wish to marry. Surely you’ve met plenty of other ladies who would suit you much better than I would.”
“There’s no one I care for more than you.”
She looked down. There was a warmth in his voice, but she knew it for what it was: mere fondness for a childhood friend. “You need someone who will enter into all of your interests,” she argued. “You know how I hate London, and I despise fashionable parties. I was obliged to endure all that three years ago, during my one Season. I’m not about to suffer through it all again, not for anything!”
“You know, Harry, you really should give London another try. If we married, I’d introduce you to all my friends, take you to parties, the theater. It would do you good.”
“Please stop!” she said, exasperated. “There’s no use discussing it any further. I’m perfectly content where I am. I have my horses, and my dogs, and no one tells me what to do, not even Papa.”
“What, do you think I’d be some sort of Bluebeard?”
“No, I know you would never be unkind. But why me? I’m sure there are dozens of young ladies who would give their souls to become the next Viscountess Debenham.” Pretty ones, too, Harry thought silently. The sort men really
wanted
to marry, not plain, mousy-haired, gray-eyed hoydens who preferred riding to flirtation.
“Yes, but that’s the problem,” said Julian. “How do I know any of those ladies wouldn’t marry me if I were fifty years old and ugly as sin?”
“I don’t wish to pander to your vanity,” she replied. “But I’m sure there are any number of them mooning their hearts out over you, and you know it.”
Julian reddened. Clearly he was not unaware of the effect his outrageously good looks and sweet manner had on most women.
“But I don’t care for any of them the way I care for
you
. And the devil of it is, most of ’em bore me to death after a few dances. You don’t bore me.”
“That’s a ludicrous reason to marry. Besides, I know for a fact that not
all
the women in London bore you to death,” she said with a mischievous smile.
“What do you know about it? You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”
“I don’t—you told me yourself! When you first went to London, there was that blonde opera dancer that almost ruined you with her demands for expensive jewelry. Then there was that young widowed marchioness, then—”
“Did I tell you all that?” he asked, his color deepening. “What was I thinking?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not judging you. I’m sure none of your ladybirds has ever complained of how you treated them. But I’ll have you know I won’t marry a philanderer.”
“Oh, I would give all that up once we marry,” he promised.
She laughed at his blithe tone. “I know you. You can never resist a pretty face, or a well-turned ankle. You’ve said so yourself.”
“If I did, I was just joking. I could be faithful, if I needed to be. Give me credit for
some
resolution.”
“Not where most women are concerned. You wouldn’t last three months!”
“Oh yes I would.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.”
“I tell you I could.”
Harry had seen that stubborn look in Julian’s eyes before. Once he took a notion into his head, it was almost impossible to get it back out again. At least not by brute force. She had best think of something, or he would plague her about it for months.
“Very well, then,” she said. “I propose a wager.”
“A wager?” he asked, looking surprised.
“A wager. If you can refrain from so much as kissing another woman for the next three months, I will marry you.”
Julian stared at her for a few moments, then a broad smile blazed across his face as he answered, “I accept!”
“Wait,” she said, holding up her hand. “You haven’t heard my other conditions.”
“Well, what are they?”
“First, if you fail—”
“I won’t!”
“If you fail, I get Titania’s next foal.”
“That’s easy. ‘With all my worldly goods I thee endow’—isn’t that what the vows say? If I win, you get
all
my horses.”
The entrancing prospect of combining horse-breeding operations with Julian took temporary possession of Harry’s imagination. Then she mentally shook herself; of all the reasons for her and Julian to marry, it had to be the most insane.
Thinking quickly, she stated her remaining conditions. “You will go back to London next week as you planned, and continue all your usual social engagements during the Season. You will
not
tell anyone of our wager. No one must even suspect that you have offered for me.”
“That sounds fair. But how am I going to prove that I won if you’re not around to see it? I don’t want you to accuse me of cheating.”
“I would never do that. I know you wouldn’t lie to me. Just come and visit us once a week—say, every Tuesday—and tell me how you are faring.”
“Very well, I accept the wager,” he said. “We will be married by the end of June. You had best start ordering your bride’s clothes!”
She shook her head, smiling. “My dear friend, you don’t stand a chance.”
Julian whistled as he trod over the threshold of the elegant lodging in Park Street. He had just returned to London; this evening, he would attempt to clear the first obstacle toward winning Harriet’s hand. It might be a rasper, but he’d taken precautions to make sure he didn’t come to grief.
Conducted by a maid to a lady’s boudoir, decorated in shades of blush and cream, Julian was instantly aware of the beguiling scent of roses, and the equally familiar but pleasant sight of his mistress, Annette Fauré, reclining on a sofa.
“
Mon cher
Julian!” she trilled. “I ’ave meesed you so zees last week!” She jumped up from the sofa and ran to greet him, dark curls bobbing, and the ribbons on her frilly dressing-gown fluttering in her haste. In another instant, her fragrant, soft shape was pressed up against him and an equally soft rosebud of a mouth sought his.