The Bride Takes a Groom Read online

  Dedication

  For Cheryl Pientka, again

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Announcement An Excerpt from Untitled 5/19

  About the Author

  Praise for You May Kiss the Bride Book One of The Penhallow Dynasty series

  By Lisa Berne

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The Basingstoke Select Academy for Young Ladies

  Coventry, England

  June 1805

  A summer evening.

  Overhead, a full, golden moon.

  A soft masculine voice murmuring in her ear, “Ma chérie, je veux te toucher.”

  A hand, drawn across her bosom.

  Pleasure. Refuge. Connection.

  She pressed herself closer, and as she did so, to her drifted the faintest scent of lavender, carried gently on the breeze that rustled leaves, caressed flowers, stirred the light muslin hem of her gown.

  Lavender, and . . . witch hazel?

  A sudden, urgent warning sounded deep in Katherine Brooke’s brain, but it was too late.

  “Miss Brooke! Monsieur de la Motte! What is the meaning of this?” came the outraged voice of Miss Wolfe, headmistress of the very exclusive and even more expensive boarding school at which Katherine had been immured for two long, miserable years.

  Germaine—Monsieur de la Motte—gave an audible gasp of horror, and before Katherine’s equally horrified gaze the dashing music instructor who had been so bold, so eloquent, seemed abruptly to become a rather large pile of blancmange. He released her and pulled away as if he had just been holding in his arms a repulsive, bad-smelling troll he’d found lurking under a bridge somewhere, and gibbered:

  “Oh, Mademoiselle Wolfe, forgive me—it was nothing—without significance—a brotherly embrace to comfort only—the poor demoiselle so lonely and far from home—and but this one time, I do assure you—it was that I felt so very sorry for her—”

  “You lie, you—you weasel,” interrupted Katherine hotly. If she’d had her wits about her, she might have gone along with his inane little story and maybe, just maybe, mitigated this rapidly unfolding disaster, but there was something about the way he was babbling on, as if she was nothing, as if she was without significance, that made a crimson mist of rage rise up in front of her eyes like a vengeful wraith. What had happened to all those bewitchingly romantic words of passion?

  She wrenched herself around to face Miss Wolfe. “It’s not the first time, we’ve been meeting in the garden for ages, and he’s been kissing me!”

  Germaine de la Motte, no doubt aware that his days at the Basingstoke Academy for Young Ladies had drawn to an immediate close, and that within mere minutes he would be booted out onto the street with nothing but his hastily packed valise in hand, gave Katherine a look of undisguised malice. “But recall, mademoiselle, how ardently you sought me out.”

  Oh, splendid, now the cat was well and truly let out of the bag, thus making things instantly go from bad to worse. Katherine could feel her fury dissolving with almost ludicrous speed and giving way to soul-shattering embarrassment and shame. “I—I thought you liked me,” she faltered.

  He smiled thinly and lifted his shoulders in a Gallic gesture of dismissal. “Ma pauvre chérie.”

  His words came at her like a slap in the face, cruel, patronizing, stinging. It had all been a lie. A malign and hard-hearted deception. So much for those embraces, the kisses, the furtive touches here and there, the exciting feel of a man’s body against her own. How wrong and awful she’d been, how stupid, how bad—

  And here, to emphasize just how bad, was Miss Wolfe again, very nearly sputtering in her fury:

  “I can hardly believe my ears! That a pupil of mine would stoop so low! To solicit such a thing! To sneak about, like a sordid criminal! And you but fifteen, Miss Brooke! Be sure that I shall inform your parents by express first thing tomorrow.”

  Katherine hung her head. She was a low, sneaking, sordid, criminal sort of girl. Hadn’t she known, underneath it all, that she was behaving dreadfully? “Yes, Miss Wolfe,” she muttered, aware, to her further horror, that tears were gathering in her eyes, had begun to roll in heavy, wet, revealing drops down her cheeks. More ashamed of herself than ever, with a kind of desperation she scrubbed at the tears with her bare hands. Oh, she hated this place. If she was lucky, her parents would have her removed at once.

  But as it turned out, she would stay on for four more long, miserable years at the Basingstoke Academy, Mother and Father agreeing with Miss Wolfe’s expert (and, ultimately, costly) assessment that Katherine—so gauche, so inattentive—would need them in order to acquire even the most fundamental degree of polish, that essential and elusive je ne sais quoi, which would enable her to someday, one hoped, comport herself without committing further, dreadful gaffes.

  Six years after the hushed-up incident at

  the Basingstoke Select Academy for Young Ladies . . .

  Somewhere near the Canadian border

  April 1811

  It had been a perfectly good day, tramping along the St. Lawrence River and leading his men in a jolly little reconnaissance through the woods, until all at once there was a crack and a slight whistling noise.

  Then there was a sharp pain six inches down and to the right of his heart.

  “Damn it to hell,” said Hugo Penhallow, whipping around and in a single rapid motion bringing up his own musket, sighting the French sharpshooter two hundred paces away, and targeting him rather more effectively. He watched with grim satisfaction as the other man crumpled like a puppet released from its string, then sat himself down hard on the ground. His hand, pressed against the front of his red jacket, came away red also, but unfortunately with his own blood.

  If he was lucky, the bullet that was now resident inside him hadn’t struck anything of particular importance. It occurred to him now that he was very fond of his internal organs, as they’d functioned beautifully all his life, and he’d love for them to keep on doing exactly that.

  Carefully, Hugo allowed himself to slide down into a prone position. Everything was getting all hazy and woolly, and just before he closed his eyes he saw the concerned faces of his men hovering over him. A nice bunch of chaps. He was fortunate to have a group like this under his command. Too bad for them they’d have to convey him all the way back to camp, but that, after all, was one of the hazards of military life, and he was sure they’d do a decent job of it.

  The pain, he noticed, was getting worse. Well, this certainly was an annoyance. How he loathed those pesky Frenchmen, and wished they’d stay in their own country where they belonged, kowtowing to that blasted little egomaniac Bonaparte and also making brandy which was, admittedly, of excellent quality. In fact, he wouldn’t object to a long swallow of that right now. But, he suspected, he was soon to be losing consciousness, so all things considered, the brandy might well have been a waste.

  His last sentient thought was gratitude for the fact that the rec
onnaissance had been a useful one. His men would be able to confirm that yes, of a surety, there were active enemies in the area, and here was their bloodied and insensate captain to prove it.

  Chapter 1

  Six months after the eventful reconnaissance mission

  along the Canadian border . . .

  Brooke House, five miles inland from Whitehaven, England

  October 1811

  Many people would have considered Katherine Brooke to be an exceedingly fortunate young lady.

  She was rich—very rich indeed. Her jewels were of a quality and a quantity that even a queen would envy. Her gowns were made from the costliest fabrics. Her hats, gloves, shoes, stockings, shawls, pelisses, reticules, and parasols were delivered by the dozens. And her immense bedchamber had been modeled, without thought as to expense, after the neoclassical style made fashionable by no less a personage than the Prince Regent himself. It was a marvel of a room, with a high domed ceiling, large gilded mirrors, fireplaces artfully crafted so as to resemble the fronts of ancient Roman temples, half a dozen busts of eyeless long-dead emperors rendered in the purest of white marble, and walls painted Pompeiian red.

  It was here that Katherine stood with her back against the closed door, looking at her maid Céleste. “Do you have it?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle.”

  “Give it to me, please.”

  “Je suis désolée, mademoiselle, but it cost more than expected.” Céleste’s narrow face was impassive, her tone respectful, but her attitude was nonetheless imbued with every bit of her usual sly, self-satisfied insolence.

  Here we go again, Katherine thought. “How much more?”

  “It came all the way from London, mademoiselle, and as you know, secrecy is difficult to maintain across so many miles.”

  “I know it all too well. How much more?”

  “Le coût total is one pound, eighteen shillings.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Mademoiselle is concerned about le coût?” Céleste shrugged, glancing around the luxurious room as if she didn’t, in fact, know just how much pin-money Katherine received. “Quel dommage. Rest assured, I can dispose of it elsewhere.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Katherine reached into the satin reticule hanging from her wrist, her fingers slipping past the downy, fragile marabou feathers with which it was ornamented, and extracted two golden guineas which she held out to Céleste. “Here.”

  Céleste didn’t move. “Would mademoiselle like back les cinq shillings?”

  “Keep them.” With effort, Katherine kept her face bland. Oh, tedious, tedious, this final extraction of money on top of what was doubtless an inflated fee, but one had to tread carefully with Céleste in these matters. She added, insincerely: “By way of a thank-you.”

  “Mademoiselle is too kind.” Without hurry, Céleste took the guineas, then slid her hand into the pocket-slit at her waist and produced from within it a small rectangular bundle wrapped in cheap, plain paper.

  Katherine snatched it from her, and Céleste smiled.

  “It is always a pleasure doing business with mademoiselle.”

  “You may leave.”

  “But you are expected downstairs, prior to the dinner hour, and your hair is ébouriffé.”

  “Come back in twenty minutes, and fix it then.”

  “I shall come back in five.”

  “Ten.” Her hands, Katherine noticed, were shaking a little with anticipation. But then, they always did at a moment like this.

  “Five minutes, mademoiselle. Or votre chère maman will notice your absence, and she may well chide me for your lateness. I do not wish to be chided.”

  “Nor do I.” A scanty patch of common ground between herself and Céleste. She said, “Have you ever wondered what would happen if Mother found out about our—ah—transactions?”

  “I would doubtless be let go at once, and sans références,” replied Céleste coolly. “One can only speculate as to your punishment, mademoiselle. Too, you would lose my services as an intermédiaire, which would be a punishment in itself, would you not agree? It is not so easy to find someone as resourceful, and as discreet, as I.”

  This complacent assertion Katherine could not dispute. It had been six years since that humiliating debacle at the Basingstoke Select Academy and the maid Céleste had been forced upon her; they had lived alongside each other locked into a vile dynamic in which their antipathy was mutual, yet each had benefited from their clandestine dealings. Céleste had been magnificently feathering her nest with all the money Katherine paid her, and as for herself—she almost brought the little package to her nose, to breathe in its heady fragrance, but instead said:

  “Which reminds me. Where are the books I asked for?”

  “The volume of Shakespeare’s plays is en route, I am informed, mademoiselle, but the other—the Italian book—”

  “La Divina Commedia.”

  “Oui. It is proving more difficult to locate in the original language. Rest assured, I have not forgotten.” Céleste smiled, with a knowing sort of glimmer that made Katherine feel like her skin was prickling with shamed embarrassment. “Shall I leave you now, so that you might enjoy votre petite gâterie?”

  “Yes. Do.” Katherine stepped aside, and Céleste sauntered out of the room with what had to be deliberate insolence; the moment the door was shut Katherine leaned against it again and carefully unfolded the paper in her hands.

  There. There they were. Saliva pooled in her mouth as she stared at the two dozen diablotins, the dark thin disks of chocolate covered with nonpareils, tiny, tasty white balls of sugar. For years Mother had forbidden her candy, insisting it made her spotty, but still Katherine had found a way.

  Diablotin.

  It meant imp or gremlin in French.

  A defiant little smile curved her lips and she popped one of the disks into her mouth.

  Oh, delicious. Delicious—exquisite—beguiling—magical—except that words couldn’t even come close to describing it. She closed her eyes, savoring. The taste was both bitter and sweet, the chocolate smooth and rich on her tongue; the little nonpareils crunched between her teeth, yielding up a tantalizing contrast of textures.

  But one wasn’t enough. And time was short. Katherine opened her eyes and rapidly consumed three, four, five diablotins, waiting for the rush of pleasure that always came with eating chocolate. No wonder the ancient Aztecs believed that cacao seeds, from which chocolate was made, were a gift from the gods, or that they valued the seeds so greatly they used them as currency. She’d read that in one of her history books, at present hidden away in a locked box under her bed.

  And speaking of books . . .

  What excellent news that her contraband volume of Shakespeare’s plays was on the way. At school they could only read the Bowdlers’ version, The Family Shakespeare, edited—eviscerated was more like it—in a way that supposedly protected a maiden’s fragile sensibilities. All the really good parts had been removed, the bits having to do with bad people using bad words, no doubt, and doing bad deeds. Katherine could barely wait to read them all.

  She smiled, really smiled. She was feeling it now. For a few precious moments she would feel happy. Good. Alive.

  Until Céleste came back, did whatever she was going to do with her hair, and she’d have to go downstairs. Ugh. Another excruciating evening spent with her parents and their—what was a good way to describe them?

  “Guests” didn’t quite do them justice. Katherine preferred “leeches in human form.” Hovering a few rungs below Society’s topmost echelon, they doubtless had received no better invitations elsewhere, and so here they flocked, the best her parents could do. They ate, they drank, they borrowed money, they expected the Brooke servants to wait on them hand and foot, and for all she knew they were smuggling the silver into their trunks.

  This was bad enough, but it had also struck her that none of them appeared to have ever read a book from start to finish. And their conversation—if one could
call it that—reflected this sad fact. Mealtimes were interminable.

  But at least she would know, all throughout the next several hours, that concealed in her armoire, at the far end of a drawer beneath a pile of silk stockings, were eighteen more diablotins, waiting for her to come back.

  At around the same time . . .

  On the road to Whitehaven

  Many people would have considered Captain Hugo Penhallow to be a man in trouble.

  He had almost no money, and no income to anticipate; an old house was his only property. In addition, he had a large family to support: a widowed mother, a younger sister, and three younger brothers. His profession for the past eight years, in the Army, was no longer a viable one, for he had recently sold out. As the son of a gentleman, naturally he had no training for any other occupation. And, finally, several months ago he had badly broken his left leg and so now, when he was fatigued, he walked with an unmistakable limp.

  Yet here was Hugo, riding north along the Longtown Road on this cool, cloudy afternoon, sitting his horse with casual grace and whistling cheerfully, giving all the appearance of a person without a care in the world.

  This was, in fact, largely how he was feeling.

  For one thing, he was on his way home, and he’d soon be with his dear and delightful family, whom he hadn’t seen once during those eight years, as he had been sent to the annoyingly obstreperous territory along the Canadian border. Letters had helped bridge the distance between himself and home, although he was fairly certain that not all of them were delivered or received, it being not uncommon to have placed in his hands a missive that looked as if it had been in a battle itself, so bent and begrimed was it.

  As for the financial difficulties, Hugo wasn’t ignoring just how dire they were, but he was taking action: he had decided to capitalize on his two chief assets, both intangible but clearly of significant value in certain circles.

  One—he was a Penhallow. It was an old and illustrious name that loomed large, extremely large, among the haut ton. The first Penhallow, it was said, had long ago come to England with the great Conqueror himself, and the Conqueror had humbly deferred to him. Although he himself was but a straitened member of the cadet branch of the Penhallow family, Hugo was fully aware of the effect his hoary surname exerted upon even the loftiest dukes and earls, permitting oneself to walk about trailing, as it were, clouds of glory. All rather comical, in his opinion, but there it was.