The Bride Price (28 page)

And so we end our competition correspondence, Dear Reader, with a kind of nostalgic gaze. Oh the sights that we have seen and the hearts that we watched break.

C
aroline watched the butterflies alight upon the blossoms, wave their wings, then lift off again to flutter to another bloom on the edge of the back gardens. She idly picked blades of grass and pulled them through her fingers. Her solitude and silence went unnoticed by the massive crowd on the edges of the back grounds as she was mostly hidden from view by the entrance hedges of the maze. The distant haunting cry of a peacock stalking the corridors behind her broke through the chatter on the other side of the green wall.

It was August the twenty-fifth and she was alone, even in a crowd of hundreds. Again. The starlings swirled above her, forming into a tight wave, breaking off, then forming again. Circling and playing.

She pulled another blade through her fingers, the malleable green shaft adapting to the move
ment, a formidable piece of nature, withstanding stomping children and mighty winds. Giving up only when cruelly plucked.

She let the blade fall to her lap. Cheevers wanted to see her as soon as the last of the guests left for the day. There would still be stragglers hoping to capitalize on the last of the gossip and the hospitality of Meadowbrook, but the bulk of the guests would thankfully be long gone. She didn’t know why she had remained at the manor to see Sebastien claim his prize. To see Sarah given away. But running away had seemed cowardly somehow.

She watched as the guests continued to gather upon the lavishly adorned patio grounds, pushing closer to her partially hidden spot. Eager to gossip, to congratulate the soon-to-be viscount, and to make new inroads. The contestants had been escorted off to the library to commence the final tally of the points. But everyone knew the identity of the winner. Too many people had been keeping separate track of the points, and bets had been flying before the last game as bet makers had tallied the odds for each man.

She mechanically moved her locket back and forth along its long chain. Sarah and William were arguing heatedly at the other edge of the garden, so heatedly that they were drawing stares. Lady Tevon was hovering near trying to interfere.

She should go over to help, to mediate, but she couldn’t quite work up the energy. Someone sat on the bench near her and she moved her eyes just enough to see Lord Benedict.

“Mrs. Martin.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Benedict.” The rest of the contestants had obviously been turned out from the library in order to let the winner sign. She didn’t know whether to extend her condolences or to keep quiet. “You shot wonderfully today.”

“Yes.” He leaned back with his heels extended in front of him and watched the chattering crowd. “Thank you.”

She turned fully toward him. “Forgive me, but you seem quite contemplative.”

He fiddled with a watch at his pocket. “It is far less of a surprise to me that Deville won. He wins far more often than I.”

A wave of whispers swept the crowd as the Tipping Seven stepped through the ornate back doors, followed by the King and his entourage.

The crowd pushed back to allow more room for an announcement. The Duke of Grandien looked beyond arrogant and smug. Caroline gripped her skirt and caught Benedict shifting from the corner of her eye.

Cheevers held up his hands and the crowd quieted. “Ladies and gentlemen, this has been an outstanding two months. Gentlemen of extreme quality have competed in this tournament—but only one man can be named the winner. I give you our winner, Mr. Sebastien Deville!”

The crowd roared and clapped as Sebastien appeared on the threshold. The ornate columns framed his body in a picture-like embrace and the gold accents glittered around him, marking him like some sort of demigod who had come down to see his worshippers.

“Thank you,” he said smoothly. “It has been quite a remarkable experience.”

The crowd cheered again.

“From the first day I was approached about this tournament it seemed like an answer to the prayer of every man who had ever stood under the auspices of the titled and wondered what it would be like to switch his place.”

The crowd nodded, several men looking thoughtful or wistful.

“To pit oneself against others of equal standing and see who would come out on top. Brother against brother, in some cases.”

Benedict shifted next to her.

“And all for the benefit of these fine men in front of us.” He swept a hand in front of him to encompass all of the Tipping Seven. The duke’s brows creased before he smoothed them out again.

“It is an honor to win a title from the King.” Sebastien bowed to George. “And the accompanying spoils are also quite grand, but I find that the terms of the agreement no longer suit me.”

A starling shrieked in the sudden silence.

“So I respectfully withdraw from this competition and bid you adieu. Perhaps another time, gentlemen?” Sebastien tipped his head and walked past the Tipping Seven and the King. He disappeared out of Caroline’s view and into the crowd.

She swallowed, but there was no moisture in her mouth. The world had gone hazy around her.

Sebastien had just
turned down
the largest prize in England. And he had turned down the bride price.

“Unbelievable,” Benedict whispered next to her as she reeled.

The duke looked as if he’d bitten into something rotten as the crowd erupted. His eyes followed Sebastien’s retreat. His cane clicked against the pavers. The look on his face bode ill for anyone who would dare to approach him. Stunned, she continued to watch the older men as they fielded queries and shouts from the crowd. Cheevers sent a servant scrambling after Deville, but he was forced to swim upstream of the rowdy crowd.

Suddenly the duke’s features smoothed and he held up a hand to quiet the onlookers. “Well, with Deville out, I believe that puts Lord Benedict Alvarest in first place.”

“I demand a recount with Deville’s scores removed,” Bateman shouted from the side. Murmurs from the crowd grew once more.

The duke’s fingers gripped the top of his cane. “I believe that to be unnecessary. The calculations were done, just in case of this instance and Lord Benedict is in second.”

Caroline turned wide eyes to Benedict. Benedict’s mouth parted, but nothing emerged. He swallowed, looked down at his hands, then resolutely stood and stepped forward so that he could be seen. “No. I withdraw from the competition as well.”

“Pardon me?” the duke asked, in a silver-tongued viper’s voice.

“I said that I withdraw,” Benedict said in a louder tone. “I—I plan to travel to the Continent. Or to the colonies. To see some of the world.”

He looked directly at the duke, a stare that she had never seen him give the older man. “To make my way in this world myself.”

The expression on the Duke of Grandien’s face could only be described as thin ice covering a deep, scorching flame.

Benedict brushed off his trousers. “So I too bid you adieu. Perhaps another time, gentlemen?” He repeated Sebastien’s salvo and strode forward, the shocked crowd parting around him as he passed the duke and disappeared inside.

Caroline caught a swish of red and turned her gaze to see Harriet Noke step forward as well. Harriet gave the crowd an appraising look, smiled a secretive smile, then followed Benedict inside.

The King looked as shocked as everyone else, but there was something in his eyes. A sparkle. “Well then, who’s next?”

“No.”

Caroline craned her head, once again alone, to see Sarah step forward. Oh, Sarah. Her heart leapt. She didn’t know if she could take any more shocks.

“I wish to remove myself from this competition as well.”

“The competition is over, Lady Sarah,” Cheevers said, looking as apoplectic as the rest of his compatriots. “You agreed to the terms. And when I am—”

“No.” She folded her hands in front of her. “I will not marry anyone entered into this tournament. I plan to marry someone else, and the church frowns on double marriages, you see.”

Oh, Sarah. Joy and fear mixed together. Joy that her sister would find happiness. Fear of what her father’s reaction would be.

“And just who do you plan to wed?”

Sarah smiled, a secretive, but joyous smile. “My true love, father. My true love.”

The crowd erupted, people pushing toward the Tipping Seven, yelling and demanding answers. Caroline covered her mouth, a beyond merry laugh threatening to escape. She wanted to stand and cheer. To run forward and embrace her sister.

Only tremors in the grass behind her held her still. The footsteps took sound. She tensed, wondering if it was a servant or guest who had wandered through the back of the maze, but the languid lope of the steps indicated someone else entirely.

A wild beat started in her heart as the footsteps stopped and a lazy body dropped next to her, long legs stretched out in front.

She turned her head slowly. Aquamarine eyes held hers, eyes lovelier than she’d seen them, full of emotion—a warmth and peace they had previously lacked.

“How—”

“Useful things, mazes, when they have multiple entrances and exits,” he said, smiling.

She swallowed and attempted a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “Clever of you.”

“Supremely.” He motioned toward the hedge which blocked his view of the crowd. “It appears as if we are missing the party.”

“Yes.” She wanted to touch him, to hug him to her. “I must congratulate you. Who else would drive the Tipping Seven to murder?”

His head tilted back and he grinned. “Listen to the challenges.” The voices of the crowd shouted on the other side of their hedge. “It’s like the finest music. They just might be in court for years over the results. The old men may have finally bitten off more than they can chew.”

She drew a hand along the edge of the bench. “Did you really not sign the documents?”

“I really did not.” He picked up a blade of grass and let it fall from his hand.

“But Roseford…”

The first show of tightening appeared in his shoulders. “I gave up Roseford by refusing to sign.”

She stared at him as he let a clump of blades slip from his fingers in a cloud of green. “Why?”

“I’d have to scrub the house to make it habitable once more and it would simply be work, work, work.” He shook his hand and the few blades still stuck blew away.

“How can you be so blasé?”

He stilled and turned fully toward her, drawing his hand over his knee. “Do you think I’m blasé about this, Caro, despite my words?” He reached forward and touched her cheek. “Do you think I did this on a whim?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, I know you don’t,” he whispered back, thumb stroking her skin. “It’s because I didn’t
understand myself. I stood before that contract knowing the power I could hold, knowing I could have Roseford back, the only home I’ve known. And the one thing that kept appearing before and after each thought was a picture of you. You are where I could make my home, Caroline. The feeling of Roseford, that is what I wanted, needed, to have again. Where I know there is someone out there who is mine, and that I could be that person’s in return.”

She bit her lip. “Oh.” It was an inane response, but she didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t include tears and blubbering.

He rose, brushed off his perfectly tailored trousers, and held out a hand. The voices in the background faded to insignificance. “Besides, you have that perfectly tidy cottage just waiting for me to soil with my debris.”

She looked up at him, hair falling over her eye, her last defense. “Be there in the morning when I wake.”

He crouched in front of her, smoothed back the fallen lock, his hand holding her cheek as aquamarine eyes held hers.

“Always.”

A
figure holding two scrolls rounded the hill. One appointing a new knight of the realm for true service rendered to the crown—for saving a child born on the wrong side of the royal blanket.

The other scroll was possibly even sweeter. He smiled. He had convinced his father to let him marry Sarah. And when it came down to it, the King’s word was law. Sarah was no longer the contest’s prize. He thought that fact might just change the mind of the man inside the cottage regarding the other document, which had been modified, but still included a daughter of the Cheevers’s line.

Of course, if Sebastien Deville told them all to go to hell, he would applaud the decision.

It would be interesting to see what he decided. William smiled and knocked on the door.

There was never a recorded competition like the one described within these pages. I’d like to think, though, that if there had been one, this is the way it might have unraveled…