I Thee Wed (30 page)

READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT CELESTE BRADLEY'S NEXT WICKED WORTHINGTONS ROMANCE,

WEDDED BLISS

COMING IN MAY 2017 FROM SIGNET
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“W
HAT about what I want? Always such a good boy. Always doing as I'm told. So bloody careful never to offend!” Lord Neville Danworth, fourteenth Duke of Camberton, tossed back the rest of his whiskey with the awkward flair of the beginning drinker. Then he hesitated, as if resisting the impulse to throw his fine crystal glass into the hearth.

He set it carefully on the mantel instead. Then his open hand curled into a fist at his side. “Well, perhaps it's time someone worried about offending me!”

The man seated in the large wing chair by the fire didn't respond. The duke didn't really seem to want a reply, so instead he toyed with an exotically carved dagger. He allowed the candlelight to play along the blade and considered his companion carefully.

The man knew that Neville took pride in being a gentleman and a scholar. The young duke took dutiful care of his lands and his people. He danced well, when he could bring himself to ask someone, and rode well, although horses made him sneeze, and shot well, even though he had confided that
he preferred not to actually kill anything that had big warm eyes or graceful wings. He spoke three languages fluently and could read several more.

Poor Neville. He was quite right to itch beneath the burden of his responsibilities. Ever the good lad. Ever the good student. Look at him now. The very thought of defying his uncle's wishes had driven him, with a little friendly urging, to seek courage in a bottle of whiskey—and the whiskey was driving him to release the bitterness he'd not even known he carried from a lifetime of performing beyond expectations in every way.

If he wasn't careful, that bitterness would push him into making a mistake.

Neville pounded his fist upon the mantel and didn't even flinch at the pain of his flesh striking the stone. He whirled on his audience of one with fury in his eyes.

“Well? Are you going to help me with this Bliss Worthington situation or not?”

As he waited for an answer, the rage turned his face red, then white. He staggered, as if he didn't know whether to stand or sit. Then the whiskey made his decision for him.

The man put away his dangerous toy and stood.

From his position on the floor, Neville blinked up at him. “Your boots are very shiny. Shiny and black, with that turned-down top. I wish I were a ship captain and could wear those boots. Or maybe I could be a legendary pirate. They have nice boots, too.”

Although Neville was every bit as tall as he was, the man had little trouble lifting him to his feet and letting him fall with somewhat more dignity into the chair by the fire.

“You came home just in time, you know.” Draped in a more or less upright position, Neville nodded with satisfaction. “I knew I could count on you. I knew you would help if you truly understood the situation. You'll talk to Uncle Oliver, won't you? You'll help me with Bliss?”

The big man standing over him didn't answer, but he didn't
have to. He would help. He would fix everything.

“I can't do it,” Neville murmured. “I cannot set Bliss Worthington aside in order to wed someone else just because Uncle Oliver doesn't approve.” He blinked slowly at the fire, his gaze fixed on the blue and gold flames dancing over the coals. “After all, it isn't as though there is anything wrong with the Worthington name. I know the family is a little . . . Well, they are an odd lot—it is true—but if being odd affected one's social standing, then the prince regent would be a beggar in the street!” His own defiance of propriety seemed to startle him. He nestled deeper into the cushions.

“She's so . . .” Neville continued, waving his hand. “That golden hair, those sky blue eyes, those—” His hands rose to map a figure in the air. If one were to believe those whiskey-inspired proportions, Miss Bliss Worthington must truly be the stuff of a lonely man's dream.

Distracted by the mere thought of the feminine hills and valleys contained in the imaginary cartography of his beloved, Neville didn't even seem to notice when he passed out entirely.

The silent man stood looking down at the unconscious Duke of Camberton for a long moment. Gangling and unfinished, Neville's limp body slithered down the fine leather of the seat cushion, flopping over the chair arm like an unfettered marionette.

He had been a boy once, too, the man thought. He had dreamed of unlikely and unattainable things, just as Neville did. The difference was that when a man was a bastard instead of an heir, the unlikely remained just that, and the unattainable swung forever just out of reach. The world wasn't designed to help bastards, but it did look favorably on those of unlucky birth who behaved more like gentlemen. Perhaps this was a task only a bastard could do.

*   *   *

T
HE RAIN SLASHED
at the rickety Worthington carriage like a wet hand slapping at a pest. Bliss Worthington was aware of the vibration of the storm against the old lacquered wood surrounding her. She realized that the seams of the vehicle dripped somewhat, and that the damp was making the horsehair-stuffed cushions smell a bit more mildewed than usual.

None of these things dug a single furrow into her determination. Not the midnight storm, not the plight of the poor horses pulling her along, not even the probable suffering of the driver up on his bench seat with only an oilcloth slicker for protection.

“‘Wishing clocks more swift,' dear?”

Bliss focused her gaze upon her aunt Iris, who sat across from her. Iris Worthington seemed just as unperturbed by the horrid London weather as Bliss was. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying it immensely. Of course, Iris always did like to indulge in a bit of theater, even that of a natural variety.

“That's from
Winter's Tale
, pet. Act one, scene two.”

“Yes, Aunt Iris. I know.” Dear Iris. Bliss loved her devotedly, and knew she herself was loved in return, but if ever there was a more useless woman than Iris Worthington, Bliss had yet to meet her. Iris lived in a world filled with fantasy and theater, where William Shakespeare was a constant companion.

However, Bliss was entirely undeterred by the weather, or the time of night, or any other single thing. If the narrow London streets flooded, she would hop from the carriage and swim herself to the chapel.

After all, she was about to marry the man of her dreams!

Bliss smiled contentedly to herself. Darling Neville. He was handsome, in a youthful, bookish way. He was very rich, which would be more pleasant than being poor. He was titled, although Bliss could honestly plead no interest in that, unless his social clout came in handy to further the interests of her dear Worthington relations.

No, truly, it was Neville himself she preferred over all other men. Neville was gentle and kind and good-natured and thoughtful. He was a good and fair master to his dependents and a most diligent landholder. As the Duke of Camberton, despite his mere twenty-seven years, he was truly beyond reproach.

His scholarly bent did not dismay Bliss. She was quite accustomed to people who studied and read and piled books here, there, and everywhere. Worthington House was a riotous, slithering torrent of books and brilliance and occasional accidental explosions. It was an exciting existence. But Bliss was through with excitement. Neville's propensity toward quiet reading would be positively refreshing.

Bliss knew that Neville adored her right back. As well he should. Her appearance was quite fetching, she'd been told, and she knew her figure was on the riveting side of generous. She was fashionable without being intimidating, and her taste was impeccable. She was patient, even-tempered, and intelligent. She would make an outstanding duchess and an exemplary wife.

She'd never been terribly romantic, which was just one thing that differentiated her from most of her Worthington cousins. Despite her basically practical nature, however, she was naturally eager to pursue the upcoming pleasures of marriage with her handsome husband.

With a slight easing of her perfect posture, she leaned back into the musty cushions with a very small sigh. The storm was slowing her progress toward her future, which was unacceptable. Yet she refused to become frustrated. With each grudging clop of the horses' hooves, she was getting closer to the moment that would change everything.

Neville had become duke at age twelve. The great responsibility had made him dedicated, painstaking, and, best of all, predictable.

In contrast, Bliss had been left to grow up in the sheep-infested county of Shropshire in the care of a foster mother,
while her busy, wealthy parents continued their exciting, separate lives in London. All her life, she had lived day to day, never knowing when her parents might come, waiting for weeks or months, and sometimes years, before one of their fine carriages would jingle its way from London down the country lanes to her foster mother's cottage, when a well-dressed footman would leap from the top seat and flip out a small folding step made from filigreed brass, then hand down either a veiled and silk-clad woman or a stout and silk-clad man.

Mama and Papa were darlings, and of course their lives were terribly busy and important, but all in all, Bliss would have liked a bit of warning once in a while. To wait, and wait, and ever-loving
wait
—and then, of course, inevitably they would arrive while she was elbow-deep in stove black, or disheveled and sticky from berrying, or, worse, in the middle of a very good book! She learned very young that the best thing was to remain “just so” at all times.

In short, she had spent her entire life waiting for someone to come home.

Now she was in London at last, and had been residing for months quite satisfactorily with the dear Worthington clan. That was how she'd met her perfect, wonderful Neville.

Neville didn't care for travel. Long carriage rides made him ill. Neville wanted to stay home and study his butterfly collection and sit in his study to write long letters to naturalists around the world.

For the rest of her life, Bliss would always know precisely where Neville was. Like a beetle stuck to her board with the pin of matrimony, he would never leave her all alone.

No more lonely waiting. Never again.

Photo © Charles M. Fitch 2014

Celeste Bradley
is the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of more than twenty Regency romance novels and has twice been nominated for the RITA award by Romance Writers of America. Before becoming a writer in 1999, Celeste was an artist who specialized in pottery and ceramic sculpture. Although originally from the South, Celeste now resides in New Mexico. “It is one of the last habitats of the Free-Range Human.” She is very fond of food that someone else cooks, animals of all sorts, painting, jewelry making, reading, and grandbabies.

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