Bride Blunder (6 page)

Gavin dipped his hand in the half-full sack of flour, knowing by the feel of it in his palm it was wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Everything he'd turned out that morning either went to scrap feed or had to be put through again with exacting adjustments to fix what should have been right the first time.

Lord, is this Your way of telling me I should have gone to the town meeting with Marge? Part of wooing a woman is supposedly being supportive, but how does it help my cause to support her means of being independent? To encourage her to push farther and farther away from me?

To be sure, although he already knew exactly what he'd find, he rubbed the forefinger of one hand in the small mound of flour covering the opposite palm. Small grits tattled of stones set a hair's breadth too far apart. He let it fall back into the sack with a dismal pale
poof
and went to shut the sluice gate. If a miller lost his touch, he lost everything.

Same could be said of a man and his temper. In fact, that's where Gavin suspected the real problem lay. If he looked hard enough, he wouldn't find the flaw in the grain, or the gears, or in his knowledge or finely cultivated instinct for grinding and tending the mill. He would admit it came from his sudden sense of dissatisfaction.

If idle hands did the devil's work, distracted ones opened the doors. With a mind full of Marguerites, precious little focus remained for the mundane. Not when at that very moment, Marge stood before the town council, revealing that she most certainly did not plan to marry him.

An impossible situation. Go, and appear to endorse her decision to refuse him. Or stay, and seem to sulk at her defection. Either way, he'd be the butt of every joke in town until he got her stubborn self to the altar—
where she belongs.

How to get the job done presented a problem. Particularly when he wanted to ask the woman what in tarnation she was about, broadcasting their business to everybody like this. Tempers didn't tempt anyone, so he'd have to keep a lid on his.

He could do that. Anger provided a poor way of life, and Gavin didn't hold grudges. However, holding grudges didn't match up with bearing responsibility—and he didn't hold all of it in this situation.
Marge needs to meet me halfway.

“I came all the way to Buttonwood.” A surprised voice behind him made him realize he'd spoken aloud ... and Marge had returned. “That's more than halfway.”

“Not what I meant.” He kept the exasperation from his tone and turned to find her silhouetted in the doorway. For the first time, Gavin looked at her as the woman he would wed—the woman who would stand and sleep alongside him for the rest of his life.

With strong shoulders for a woman, trim waist, hips round enough to bear a man several sons, Marge wasn't a woman he would have overlooked had she been standing beside anyone other than her cousin. Better yet, right now, she looked amused.

“This morning I came back to the house from town, and when Grandma Miller said you were here, I met you at the mill.” Was that a teasing glint in her eye? Had Marge ever teased him before?

“Come a little closer,” he invited. To his recollection, Daisy was the cousin with a ready smile and easy laugh.

“Said the spider to the fly?” She finished the first line of the nursery rhyme and shook her head, bonnet bobbing. The motion carried subtly through the lines of her body, making her skirts sway.

“I thought the spider said, ‘Step into my parlor'?” At her nod, he held up a finger. “You forfeit a penalty then. One step.”

“Mills have no parlors.” She still gave him one step and held up two fingers. “Your penalty.”

“So be it.” He liked this side of her. “Now give me another, as a toll for entering my mill.”

“You wouldn't demand such a thing!” Her overdone gasp amused him. “Besides, the miller himself bid me enter.”

“That he did. He wanted his toll.”

“Very well.” She slid forward a few inches. “But the forfeit for churlishness is three full steps.”

“Woman!” Three steps brought him far closer, but he managed to drum up a scowl. “You cannot penalize a miller for seeking his due! Three steps for impertinence!” Her three steps would have made but one of his, and they both knew it. His scowl lost some of its pretense.

“He overcharged.” The merriment left her face. “Four steps from the man who asks too much.”

“Then I'll grant two, for I seek what's right.” His footfalls sounded heavy. “And take two from a woman who gives too little and then fines the miller for wanting more.”

“I'll give no more until he proves himself worthy but penalize him further for the way he believes he's entitled to what he wants.” Her eyes blazed with indignation. “Remember that, Gavin.”

“So long as
you
remember I'm willing to pay for what I want.” He gestured to the now-scant distance between them. “In time, I'll earn my prize.”

“Prize, indeed,” Marge muttered to herself as she made her way toward the house. “Consolation prize, more like.”

“Hmph.” The pronounced snort warned her of Grandma Miller's presence too late for her to keep her thoughts where they belonged—inside her head. The old woman seemed to be on her way back from the necessary. “Airing woes, are we, missy?”

“No, ma'am.” She held the door open for her companion and followed her inside. “Just repeating something your grandson mentioned.”
And adding the part he left unsaid, to remind myself of the true state of things.

Just because Gavin grinned in appreciation at her good mood and little game didn't mean he truly enjoyed her company or wanted a lifetime of it. He'd made his choice—although he'd not received it. Now Marge made hers. If she didn't keep a tight hold on her emotions and plans, she'd unravel.

“You can peel those potatoes while you tell me all about it.” Grandma plunked herself down at the table and began making short work of a mound of turnips and carrots. Venison already roasted in the stewpot atop the fancy modern stove Gavin had ordered for his wilderness home.

The stove he planned to have Daisy fix him meals on for the rest of their lives.
A smile tickled the edges of her mouth at that thought. No matter how modern, a stove couldn't work miracles and cook for her cousin. Gavin might be disappointed to know Daisy couldn't so much as boil water....

But no. It served no purpose to mention such a thing. And Marge wasn't so vain as to point out her cousin's lack of skill in hopes Gavin would appreciate the woman who'd come to Buttonwood to wed him. That would be folly.

“We lose folks to lots of things—time, sickness, heat, drowning, animal attacks, wars...” The slightly croaky voice of her companion pulled Marge's attention away from her musings. “With all those dangers, seems pure foolishness to lose yourself in thought.”

“If people thought more, many tragedies could be avoided.” She set down a peeled potato and reached for the next in the pile. “I daresay fewer would be caused in the first place.”
Like misbegotten, accidental proposals that seem cheery and full of hope but snatch away everything just because no one stopped to truly think about what was going on!

“Unpleasant situations like proposal letters gone awry?”

Thunk.
Her blade chopped off a large hunk of the potato she'd been peeling. It seemed rather pointless to feign nonchalance after that telltale move, but Marge gave it her best. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps a thoughtless mistake will turn out for the best. Sounded to me like that cousin of yours was all smiles with no spirit to back it up.”

“Daisy is full of spirit.” The knife met the table as she lost her concentration again. “My cousin is a force unto herself—something no one who's not met her can possibly appreciate. And there's no one who doesn't like a good smile.”

“True. Maybe you'd best stop scowling.”

“I'm not scowling!” Marge glared at the mangled potato before her for a moment before realizing it. A grudging chuckle escaped her at her own ridiculousness.

Grandma Miller added an approving cackle. “Good to see you have a sense of humor. I started to wonder. More to the point, you'll need it if you're going to wed that grandson of mine.”

“Oh, but I'm not going to wed your grandson.” Slow, careful strokes of the steel knife sent peels curling toward the table. “I'm going to teach here in Buttonwood. Eventually things will be settled enough I'll not stay here any longer, and Gavin can find a new bride.”
One he wants.

“He already has Daisy's replacement. Why would he need anyone else?”

“It's not a matter of need.” Another perfect, methodically peeled potato joined the pile. “It's a matter of what your grandson wants in a wife. I am most assuredly not that woman.”

“A man wants a woman. Plain and simple.” For all the bluntness of the words, the older woman's gaze stayed fixed to the table. “One who'll put supper on the table and babies in his nursery. You'll do quite well.”

“No, I won't.”
A man has to choose that woman.
“I won't be second choice to my cousin.”

“I can understand that. Maybe even respect it. But if you think half as much as you seem to, take some advice from an old woman.” Grandma Miller raised her chin, eyes blazing with some old ember of memory. “No one wants to be second choice to another woman. But it's worse to be a slave to your own pride.”

“Don't you love me?” Trouston looked up from where he'd been nibbling—in slightly slobbery fashion—behind her ear.

“You know I do, darling.” Daisy gave one of his perfect curls a playful tug in hopes the gesture would distract him. Of late their stolen moments seemed to become more and more awkward. And if Trouston's urgings were anything to judge by, it was a good thing they'd be married before week's end.

“Sweetikins, we've discussed this.” He drew back, cupping a protective hand over the back of his skull. His glower told her the petty gambit worked beautifully in shifting his attention. “You know it takes Richards far too long to see my hair properly done. I won't have you messing it up.”

“Sorry.” She tried to look penitent even as she shifted forward from the half-reclining position he'd pressed her into on the settee. “Your valet does work wonders.” She suppressed a disloyal spurt of amusement at her fiancé's vanity. Valets for men had gone out of fashion decades before, after all.

“Where are you going? There's no rush, my dear. Your mother won't expect me to bring you back for hours yet.”

“Mmm...” She sought a reason for her conspicuous movement. “Suddenly I'm parched. With no servants here, I meant to go find a glass of water.” A bright smile hopefully covered her sudden discomfort.

Leaving the Brodington musicale a bit early under pretext of a headache seemed a fine idea when Trouston whispered it to her after that dreadful performance by one of their daughters. No misgivings fluttered in her stomach when he drove her to the two-story townhome he'd purchased upon their engagement, telling her he wanted to give her a private tour before the servants took up residence the next day.

But now ... now the faint chimes of muffled good sense thumped unpleasantly in the back of her mind. Proper young ladies simply did not disappear into empty houses with a man.

Even an engagement didn't excuse such laxness.

“Allow me.” Without a moment's hesitation, Trouston left the room, his lanky frame angling out the doorway as though eager to fulfill his mission.

That's my Trouston.
At his show of devotion, the alarms stilled. After all, Trouston could be depended upon to uphold respectability. She trusted him with her hand, her heart, and her entire future—of course she could rest easy for an hour or so in his company! There'd be an entire lifetime of such evenings to look forward to.

She waited for the ballooning sense of elation to overtake her, as it always did at the thought of being Mrs. Trouston Dillard III. And waited ... The usual ebullience escaped her, leaving an oddly deflated sort of feeling she most emphatically did not wish to dwell upon with scant days to go before her wedding.

“Darling! Thank you!” His return spared her from the uncertainty, giving her good reason to push away any doubts and glide across the room to meet him. She accepted the proffered glass and took a deep draught without bothering to so much as glance.

“Easy, sweetikins.” His warning came too late, as the pungent brew burned its way down her throat, leaving her spluttering. “I thought we'd toast our upcoming wedding with some particularly fine Scotch.”

“Trouston!” She coughed up his name, wishing she could cough up the vile brew currently snaking its way down to her stomach, trailing a discomforting heat in its wake. “You know I don't imbibe!” Daisy blinked, trying to hide how her eyes watered—something he would surely disapprove of.

“I'm disappointed. This is one of the finer things in life, Daisy. I thought to share a sophisticated pleasure with you, and you cavil like a schoolgirl.”

“No!”

“Give me the rest. I won't have you waste it.” The sharp lines of his jaw seemed brittle as he nodded at her glass. “If you won't toast our happiness with me, I'll take it back.”

The burning sensation faded, leaving a dull warmth at odds with the chill of his words. “Take what back?”
Our happiness?
Her fingers curled protectively around the sapphire ring he'd given her to mark their engagement. “No.”

“You'll drink it?” Triumph gleamed in his eyes as he raised his own glass. “That's my girl. To my beautiful bride and all the happiness that awaits us.”

“To us.” Daisy lifted her own glass and took a tentative sip. This time, the heady mixture swirled against her tongue before sweeping its scalding path down her throat. She allowed only the smallest gasp to betray her discomfort.

Disapproval clouded Trouston's gaze when he saw how much still sloshed in her cup. “I've seen more enthusiasm from you over a new pair of gloves.” He looked pointedly from his empty glass to hers. “You only ever get one husband.”

“I'm overcome.” Her laugh sounded shrill to her own ears, so she raised her glass once more, this time holding her breath for a deep swallow. It didn't burn so badly this time, although it still stung. Whatever the case, now so little swirled at the bottom of her glass—a heavy silver piece she knew was never typically used for spirits—Trouston couldn't scowl when she put it down. Which she did. Immediately.

“Come with me. I wish to show you the rest of the house.” He took her arm, leading her through the places she'd already seen. Parlor, sitting room, breakfast room, formal dining room, kitchens, pantry, music room ... and by then she couldn't quite remember why she'd ever been uneasy about spending time with her fiancé in their home.

A heady warmth suffused her stomach, her head felt light with hopes as they climbed the stairs and he showed her the nursery, the guest rooms, and, finally, the master bedroom. It was here he swept her into his arms and began pressing urgent, moist kisses on her lips and neck.

She giggled and wriggled away, spinning to look at the decor. The colors blurred a bit ... cream and purple ... “Lovely,” she pronounced.

“Yes, you are.” He guided her to the bed. “You seem a bit unsteady, sweetikins. Why don't you sit down?”

“Just a moment.” She settled on the down mattress and gave an experimental bounce. “Comfortable.”

“Yes, it is.” He sat beside her, pulling her close for one of those deep kisses that always made her nervous and thrilled. He held her fast when she tried to tug away. “Easy, little one. Nothing to be afraid of. This is our home.”

His smile coaxed one from her in return.

“Now, sweetie,” he murmured, trailing a finger along the edge of her bodice as he spoke, “you're going to show me just how much you love me....”

Marge stared at the sheet of paper before her in a mixture of rage and dismay. Another stage would come through town tomorrow ... and folks back home would be expecting word from her about how things progressed.

Daisy would be waiting eagerly for news of Gavin's romantic tendencies. Descriptions of longing glances, fulsome words, and extravagant gestures the likes of which her cousin had been treated to since she first learned to bat her lashes at men. Somehow, a wry retelling of how Gavin's grandmother spilled the beans that Marge was the wrong woman wouldn't measure up.

On the other end of the scale, Aunt Verlata would be wearing a path in the carpets, fretting that something had gone awry and Marge hadn't made the splendid match they'd all gloated over. Her concern would be made up of one part horror at the idea of facing society should Marge have bungled things and become, in the eyes of civilized folk, a ruined woman with no prospects, and one part concern for Marge's safety.

Daisy may be the apple of Aunt Verlata's eye, but her aunt still cared for her a great deal. In truth, Marge only put concern for her safety as a secondary concern because she liked to think she'd proven herself to be highly capable. Capable enough to mitigate some of the worry that would plague her family if word about this little fiasco ever got out.

Which brought her back to the letter she needed to write. One page, filled with words to alleviate worry when, of course, anyone with a modicum of sense and the slightest inkling of the true state of things would be filled with misgivings. So Marge couldn't let them know. And she couldn't lie. That didn't leave much to say, and they'd know in an instant things weren't well if she didn't fill the entire sheet. Confound her hate of waste. Now they'd expect a page filled with news and descriptions of her new home.

Marge stared at the desk in front of her before finally standing up, walking over to the imposing collection of luggage dominating her room, and unearthing the trunk she sought. The sheer volume of bags, valises, trunks, and crates she'd dragged to this small town provided irrefutable proof of her foolishness. If hope sprang eternal, Marge had packed for it.

When she'd prepared a list of things to bring, she'd thought long and hard about what she'd need for a lifetime in a small frontier town. What her family would need, and since she'd always been a big believer in being prepared for anything, the list took on a life of its own. Now, as she dug her travel writing desk out of the trunk in question, Marge couldn't help but feel struck by the irony.

I prepared for everything except reality.

She couldn't muster even a tiny smile at that, no matter how she tried to appreciate the wry humor behind the situation. Instead, she took the wooden box over to the bed, plumped up the pillows, and settled herself comfortably. Only then did she unfold the box, on its well-oiled hinges, revealing a sloped writing surface inset with stiffened leather.

She lifted out the leather, withdrawing the smallest sheet of paper she could find before unstopping the small bottle of ink nestled snuggly in the carved-out niche of the corner. With her favorite mother-of-pearl dip pen in hand and a prayer on her lips, Marge set to work.

If she pressed the nib of her pen particularly hard as she signed her name, she didn't think anyone could blame her. It was all she could do to leave it at “Marge.” As it stood, though, they might suspect not all was as well as her letter portrayed if she added “Not Marguerite!” at the end of her signature....