The Bad Luck Bride Read online

  The hateful curse had struck again.

  One more sorry rejection she could add to her collection. Dazed, Claire bowed her head in shame, her glance skimming the beautiful engagement dress, a confection designed and carefully crafted to celebrate tonight’s betrothal announcement. Within the hour, she had planned to dance with Lord Paul in front of the guests, her gown sweeping the curse out of the ballroom and out of her life. Now, all she had in her future was the humiliation that waited for her once the ton heard she had suffered yet another broken betrothal. Only this time, the ton would have a front-row seat.

  All she’d ever wanted was a family of her own. To have a family, she had to marry. Truthfully, she wasn’t particular whom she married—just determined.

  She blinked to make certain she wasn’t dreaming. “Ruined” did not express the calamity of the evening. The term might have explained her situation two fiancés ago, but “destroyed” was a more apt description of the night. She dreaded the inevitable snorts and snickers from onlookers when they pounced upon the discovery that her fourth fiancé had taken the much heeded advice and jilted her a mere hour before the announcement.

  Long live the Lady Claire Curse.

  She was not one of those women who lost the resolve to fight. With every breath and every muscle in her body, she vowed to make her escape. She pasted a serene smile on her lips. Head held high like a proper duke’s daughter, she backed away from her cousin Emma and her friends. A second step increased her momentum. One more, and she would be out of sight of the guests gathered near their group, then she could hasten her departure.

  As she made the step to pivot, the hard edge of a serving tray slammed into her back. Glass shattered around her. The tinkling of the shards echoed throughout the large room as the orchestra’s last strains faded to silence. Claire pressed her eyes shut, then opened them to see the damage. Dancers, dowagers, and debutantes turned in unison at the catastrophe. The all-too-familiar heat bludgeoned her cheeks.

  She faced the unfortunate footman who held the upended tray. “Pardon me. That was my fault. Are you hurt?”

  The footman shook his head. “I beg your pardon, my lady.” He bent down to pick up the fragments of broken glass.

  Stomach sucked in and shoulders squared, she returned her attention to the dance floor. The other guests had resumed their festivities, except for the onlookers closest to her. Several smirks alighted across the sea of faces at her embarrassing attempt to escape.

  “Claire, is everything all right? You look a little … unsettled?” Her cousin Emma stood by her side with a brilliant smile that brightened the entire room.

  If Claire hinted what had transpired within the last few moments, she doubted her cousin would be able to keep the worry from her beautiful face. “I’m fine. I just need some air.”

  Emma’s nod made her honey-colored curls shine in the candlelight. “Your anxiety is perfectly understandable. Personally, I cannot wait for the announcement. Finally, I’ll get a full glass of champagne, maybe two.” Apparently satisfied all was well, she patted Claire’s arm, then returned to her friends.

  Tonight, Claire’s aunt and uncle had planned to raise a toast to her future happiness. They’d already asked Lady Anthony if they could make an announcement. Thank heavens they hadn’t specified what it was.

  The liveried footman who had delivered the note stood by her side, ready to assist. With his black-and-gold attire matching the ballroom decor, the man looked like a worker bee in an active hive. Footmen in similar costumes moved in precision throughout the room to attend the other guests. The first strains of a quadrille floated into the air.

  The servant bowed slightly. “My lady, will there be a response?”

  Where was it? In her shock, she must have dropped the missive. A quick survey of the floor revealed the note a mere foot away.

  She knelt to pick it up. At the same time, a large male hand reached for the paper.

  A burst of pain exploded at Claire’s right temple as she bumped heads with the man. Horrified at her clumsiness, she jerked backward. What more could go wrong this evening? Miraculously, she didn’t fall into a heap. “I’m sorry.…”

  The rest of the apology melted when Claire found the most arresting pair of gray eyes studying her. Without a thought to the consequence, she snatched the note directly out of his gloved fingers to stop him from reading it. “Excuse me, but that’s mine.”

  Alexander Hallworth, Marquess of Pembrooke, crouched before her. “Lady Claire, allow me to assist you.” The half smile he offered appeared almost compassionate.

  His whisky-dark voice caused a warm tingle to spread from the top of her head to her toes. His black evening coat accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. Even resting on his haunches, he towered over her. Mortified at her earlier incivility with the note, she averted her eyes, and her serene smile collapsed. “Thank you.”

  He lightly clasped her elbow and helped her stand.

  With a dismissive turn, Claire faced the footman. “I need to send a message to my uncle, the Duke of Langham. Is there someplace private, away from the noise?”

  Claire ignored the urge to steal another peek at Pembrooke for fear he would discover her secret. Where had he come from? He never attended these events.

  She followed her bumblebee escort into a dimly lit salon decorated in colors of the footman’s livery. The plush gold carpet muffled her steps, and she wished it could perform the same magic on her pounding heartbeat. The footman produced a sheet of paper with a sharpened quill and a fresh pot of ink.

  The effort to pen a quick note was more difficult than expected. Her hand shook to such a degree that a large smear of iron gall ink stained her pristine glove, one more blemish on the evening. Somehow, she composed her thoughts, a simple request that her aunt and uncle meet her in the vestibule so she could leave without notice. The ink had barely dried when she sealed the missive. “Please deliver this immediately. I’ll not wait for his reply.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  The footman opened the door, and the noise from the ballroom festivities barged into the room like an uninvited guest. After he left, she welcomed the sweet comfort of silence. Another broken betrothal. Her chest tightened with the familiar pain. The hurt was not from the string of unsuccessful engagements, but more, the undeniable truth she would never have a family to replace the one she’d lost.

  With a glance around the salon, she let out a tiny sigh of relief. Fortune bestowed a brief grin on her dire circumstances. The room overlooked Lady Anthony’s formal gardens. Any other night she would have been content admiring the promised tranquility from afar. Tonight, it conspired to act as her accomplice.

  Through the ornate floor-to-ceiling French doors, she made her escape onto the terrace and down the steps. She couldn’t chance another walk through the ballroom and face a plethora of curious stares from the vultures who masqueraded as guests.

  Small lanterns swayed in the gentle breeze. Light danced upon the pathway. A chill ran across her arm, and her skin prickled. There was no cause to worry about discovery since the gardens would most likely be empty. The midnight supper guaranteed to keep the party inside.

  Within fifteen minutes, she would find some peace of mind safely cocooned with her aunt and uncle in the family’s coach. The late evening dew soaked her silk dance slippers and, undoubtedly, the hem of her beautiful dress. It was a small price to pay for freedom.

  A brief flash of lightning appeared in the west. Claire stopped dead in her tracks, then straightened her spine. She quelled the new worry that joined her current discomfort and continued on her way. A few gentle drops of rain fell on her shoulders. Dear God, not this. Not now. She hummed the lullaby her mother had taught her to keep her fears at bay.

  Completely unprepared to face a storm, she took several deep breaths to bolster her courage. Thunder rolled from behind and grew closer in a strange rhythmic pattern. Her chest muscles seized and held her breath prisoner. With no warning, her h
eartbeat revolted and exploded in her chest.

  The garden around her disappeared, and once again she was ten years old. The crack of splitting wood accompanied by the boom of thunder spilled into the carriage as they crossed the bridge to Wrenwood. The vehicle lurched to the right. The din of the storm swallowed the horses’ screams and the outriders’ frantic shouts. End over end, the carriage tumbled. The coach groaned as the paneled wood splintered. Suddenly, she was plunged into the frigid water that stole her breath. Her skirts tangled around her legs. Alone, wild with fear, and unable to kick free, she fought the surrounding blackness.

  “My lady?” The deep voice brought her back to the present. Her racing pulse slowed. The footman must have seen her exit. She turned to assure him all was well, but her short-lived reprieve transformed into a full sense of dread.

  “Lord Pembrooke,” she whispered. Now she faced a delay in reaching her aunt and uncle besides the risk of discovery.

  At least she had company.…

  Enough! She had to control her panic. All she needed was another two minutes to reach the vestibule.

  He surprised her with a sudden enchanting smile. “You must be enjoying the ball about as much as I am. It was quite a feat to catch you.”

  Claire managed a small, tentative smile in answer. What could he possibly want with her this evening? The distant notes of the supper waltz faded to nothing. “You wanted to catch me?”

  Pembrooke took a step closer. She muffled the whimper that threatened at his sudden nearness. A brilliant flicker of lightning caused his eyes to flash like a blaze of fire. His black hair made it nigh impossible to see where his head ended and the night began.

  “In the ballroom you appeared distraught. I’m here to offer assistance.”

  His words set alarm bells clanging. If he had seen her agitation, who else had?

  “Assistance?” Claire winced as soon as the word escaped. She was not a blasted parrot. She swallowed the lump in her throat before casting a glance over his shoulder. No one else accompanied him.

  Another charge of light rent the sky, causing an uncontrollable shiver to skate down her back.

  Pembrooke leaned into the pathway light. The lantern’s flame cast his strong chin and chiseled cheekbones into prominence. His eyes scrutinized her with the intensity of a scientist cataloging an insect’s features under a magnifying glass.

  Her parched throat prevented another swallow. If he continued to examine her in such detail, he might discover the true magnitude of her distress.

  “Lady Claire…” His whisper surrounded her. “Let’s discuss Lord Paul.”

  * * *

  A fiery flash lit the sky. At Claire’s sharp inhalation, Alex extended his hand in invitation. “Shall we escape the rain?” A small alcove attached to the house and located to the right of the pathway would provide a safe cover.

  “I’m expected in the ballroom.” The feigned strength in her voice reminded Alex of a wounded animal desperate to defend itself. The tremble of her hands corroborated the true extent of her turmoil.

  The warm glow from the garden lanterns caused the droplets on her shoulders and hair to glimmer like tiny diamonds. She made Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus look plain. With a chuckle designed to alleviate some of her anxiety, he closed the distance between them and confided their shared secret. “You do realize you’re headed in the wrong direction?”

  Her eyes shimmered with a sheen of moisture.

  The urge to brush away any wayward tears on her cheeks came from nowhere. “That was artless.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I apologize. It was not my intent to make light of your situation.” Tonight was difficult enough for both of them. He wanted her to accept his offer, not be frightened of him. “Please. This is important. On my honor, you have nothing to fear.”

  Claire took a tentative step toward the alcove.

  Alex followed with his hand at the small of her back, ready to stop her if she tried to run.

  She paused before crossing under the arched doorway, and the lantern’s light bathed her in a golden hue that enhanced the creamy complexion of her skin. A slight breeze delivered a hint of her fragrance, a spicy citrus. The aromatic blend was pleasant but rather unique for a woman.

  “Shall we sit?” He pointed to a granite bench.

  “No, that won’t be necessary. What do you want?” Curtness tinted with something heavier dripped from her voice. Perhaps despair, since she looked as if she had seen a ghost and had barely lived to tell the tale.

  He stepped closer. Lady Claire stood stock-still. She looked like a very brave, very small soldier. Or perhaps a very cold soldier.

  He slipped off his tight-fitting evening coat. Instead of handing her the garment, he placed it around her shoulders.

  Her body tensed as he leaned in. “Th-thank you,” she said softly.

  Even with a minimum amount of light, her hair held the color of rich auburn. From nowhere, the urge to run his hands over the curves that defined her hips and rounded chest caused his body to tighten. The only explanation for such a visceral reaction had to be tonight’s events. She was beautiful, but he’d been in the company of beautiful women before. No, it was her poise under the most difficult of circumstances, the humiliation of another broken engagement, that caused his pulse to drum a pounding rhythm.

  Alex swept the errant thoughts away. He had a tricky proposition in front of him: marriage. “Lady Claire—”

  “Why are you following me?” She eyed the archway and pulled his coat tighter to her body. “I’ll be missed if I don’t return to my family promptly.”

  He wasn’t certain whether she was afraid or annoyed. Her behavior was unusual.

  “How are you planning to manage the rumors of Lord Paul’s absence tonight?” Alex gentled his voice to soften the impending blow. “I say this not to be cruel, but by morning the entire ton shall share the news of another lost fiancé unless you act tonight. I might add they will revel once again in your latest mishap.”

  “You mock me?” Her eyes pierced his gaze like an arrow.

  “Not at all. I want to help.” He needed to tread carefully. He had enough experience with the women in his life to know he was in danger of receiving a cordial but thorough tongue-lashing. “I’d like to discuss your unfortunate circumstances in an honest and forthright manner.”

  Her stoic face reminded him of Italian Renaissance paintings, the subjects’ serenity marred by a subtle hint of discontent. “The Lady Claire Curse has taken on a life of its own,” he said finally.

  She flinched so slightly that he almost missed it.

  Her discomfort caused a surge of protectiveness to blast through him like a thunderbolt. “The ton feeds on such scandal regardless of the truth.” He locked his hands behind his back. “To shield yourself from the gossip that will erupt once it’s discovered, you should announce you broke the engagement with Lord Paul tonight. If you don’t act first, you’ll be laughed out of town once and for all. London will not discern if you are a duke’s daughter, niece, or laundry maid.”

  “One can only have so many proposed trips down the matrimonial aisle before all the potential groom candidates empty the nave for good.” Her face was devoid of emotion. “I’ll convince him to change his mind before anyone knows.”

  “Lady Claire…” This was more difficult than he thought. The poor woman obviously felt trapped, and Lord Paul was her unlikely savior. “Do you know where he is right now?”

  “No.”

  “He’s at the Reynolds, deeply in debt.” He lowered his voice. “Are you hesitant because of the witch’s curse…?”

  She glanced at the sky, then scoffed, “Please. You think too narrowly. Some attribute my misfortune to blood curses, curse tablets, and even Roman book curses. I have quite a collection to choose from, with the added talent of losing fiancés to death, disease, and dismemberment. Shall I list them all?”

  He smiled at the challenge in her voice. “If you want to share.”


  A small defiant smile broke across her lips, and her eyes flared. She was even lovelier than he’d first thought.

  “Well, Lord Thant lost a leg after a nasty accident not more than an hour after proposing. Lord Riverton left the country because of a duel. The day he proposed to me, he chose to celebrate in a peeress’s bed. He was found by her husband.” Her voice softened when she added, “Lord Archard died of a fever.” Finally, her eyes betrayed the hurt he expected she must feel over tonight’s events. “Now you understand why I need him.” With a silent dignity, she turned away.

  Alex lifted his hand to take hers but thought better of it. Without much talent to deliver comfort, he would rely on nonchalance to hide his unease. His goal had never been to ruin Lord Paul at the expense of another. As long as she didn’t cry, he could finish this.

  With a clench of his fist, his resolve returned. He could not afford to lose focus. His actions tonight defined this woman’s future and his. “Tell me exactly, counting Lord Paul, how many fiancés have you had? Four? You’ll find another to marry, I guarantee it.”

  With a swift turn, Claire faced him, and her narrowed eyes shot daggers before she inched her chin upward. She grabbed her skirts in her one hand and brushed past. The sheer volume of silk and satin rubbed against his legs and made a heavy swoosh sound. With a flick of her wrist, she dropped the skirts and spun around.

  “How did you discover Lord Paul broke the betrothal?” She asked the question with a strength in her voice that spoke volumes about her character and intelligence. “I just received word myself. Last I knew the two of you weren’t friends.”

  A twinge of pity smoldered deep inside. The sentiment was something of a novelty since Lord Paul had taught him to doubt his own kindness. With perseverance, he worked through the brief moment of conscience, and certainty came to the rescue. He had worked months for this night and refused to succumb to the tortured look in her eyes.

  She had become part of his plan when she took up with Lord Paul. Her part required she marry and become his marchioness, and his part required he keep Claire and her wealth from Lord Paul. Alex knew the man well enough not to trust him. If desperate enough, Lord Paul would likely convince her to escape to Gretna Green.