Welshman's Bride Read online

  The Welshman’s Bride

  by Blair Bancroft

  Published by Kone Enterprises

  at Smashwords

  Copyright 2015 by Grace Ann Kone

  For other books by Blair Bancroft,

  please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Chapter One

  “It is the fate of heiresses to be wed for their money.”

  I cast a glare at my ever-complacent cousin Matilda that should have had her quaking in her dainty blue half-boots. As if I hadn’t known the truth of her words since I was six! “His face is like a chunk of rock from a Welsh mountain,” I declared. “No doubt a smile would break it into a thousand pieces.”

  Matilda’s blue eyes grew wide. “Jocelyn! You cannot possibly mean to refuse another one. You know what your father said the last time.”

  “He is dark and drear and at least half a head shorter than Lord Morecombe. And Wales is the end of the earth,” I added on something closer to a wail than I had intended. For dramatizing my pique was not my way. Wheedling and winsome smiles had worked quite well with Papa, with an occasional stamp of my foot to emphasize my independence to my brothers. As for Mama, she is such a dear we are seldom at outs for more than five minutes.

  My cousin’s words interrupted my drifting thoughts. “You know quite well every eye followed him at the Edgemere’s ball last night. He—”

  “Stands out like a great black bear in a room full of swans.”

  “More like a lion.” My cousin tilted her head to one side, considering. “Or perhaps a dragon. Not a man to be trifled with, Joss.”

  “Trifled with! I have done my best to avoid Mr. Maddox. But clearly he is too stony-headed to take a hint.”

  I heaved a sigh and sank down onto the edge of my bed. Trust Matilda to be the sensible one. Matilda, whose common origins were revealed in a cheerful round face that showed no trace of aristocratic lineage. Matilda, whose mother was the daughter of a blacksmith fortunate enough to catch the eye of the younger son of a Midlands mill owner. I, however, had been born to the elder son, the one with a driving ambition for greater things and enough money to buy the daughter of a baron for his bride. Enough money to indulge his only daughter in every luxury, grant her a dowry of heroic proportions, and tolerate with good humor her finicky approach to marriage.

  Until recently, that is. Papa had not been best pleased when I rejected Lord Morecombe, a marquess, no less. But Morecombe had shifty eyes. And bad breath. And I swear any brains he might have had were long since pickled in French brandy.

  “They say he is of good family,” Matilda offered. “Descendant of a prince.”

  “A Welsh prince,” I pointed out with all the scorn of the English for the strange, dark, untamable race that lived on our western border. “Merciful heavens, Matilda,” I said when her steady gaze never wavered, “you cannot think Papa would be impressed by a title that has meant nothing for five hundred years. Mr. Maddox is likely no more than an upstart coal merchant,” I added with a tilt of my chin accompanied by an unladylike huff, “any talk of royal ancestry a mere faradiddle.”

  Mama had attempted to raise me as if I were to the manor born, but I seemed to have inherited all too much from Papa who, as he put it, was “headstrong, stubborn, and common as dirt.” I did, in fact, consider myself splendidly egalitarian, a modern miss who might acknowledge the French as our long-time enemies but understood what had sparked their rebellion against an unheeding king. Naturally, like everyone else, I was delighted when Bonaparte was defeated and consigned to Elba, but in my heart I still harbored an admiration for the American rebellion that had led the way, demonstrating so thoroughly that the rights of kings should not always prevail. A treasonous thought no doubt, but I was, after all, the daughter of a man who was providing vital goods for his country, from cloth to leather to the latest in rifles, while a perfectly useless fat flawn sat on the throne, profligately spending every penny he could lay his hands on. At least that is what Papa said.

  “Jocelyn, you are wanted in the drawing room.” My mother, who had retained her uncommonly lovely looks well after her fortieth birthday, stood in the doorway of the sunny morning room in the townhouse Papa had leased for the Season of 1818. I was most fortunate to have inherited her beauty, although my personality—sometimes described as “willful”—could only be blamed on my father.

  “The drawing room, Mama?” I knew quite well Papa had been closeted in his study with Mr. Maddox. If I was being sent to the drawing room, it could only mean that Papa had . . .

  Surely not!

  Betrayed. Papa was ambitious, infinitely wary of fortune hunters. So why had he given a dark predator out of the mountain mists of Wales permission to try his luck with the Hawley heiress?

  “Mama?” I prodded.

  Having no difficulty understanding my unspoken question, my mother clasped her hands tightly in front of her before offering a reply. “You are twenty years old, Jocelyn, of an age to be married. Yet you have turned away more suitors than I can count. Your father and I grow tired of your quibbles. Mr. Maddox is a descendant of one of the finest Welsh families. He holds property of impressive size. We have been assured he is honest, fair, a good landlord. And though a serious man and not handsome in the effete manner of many of our English nobles, he is a man of power in both face and form.”

  Ignoring my sputters as I tried to get in a word of protest, Mama paused only long enough to draw breath before continuing, “And, as you must know, after Morecombe the ton has begun to label you a jilt. Respectable men grow wary, leaving only the blatant fortune-hunters. Your Papa and I believe Mr. Maddox is by far the best match for you.”

  Her tone—implacable, inexorable—sent tears rushing to my eyes. “Mama, no-o,” I cried. Oh, I had no doubt I could toss Mr. Maddox’s offer back in his face, that Papa would eventually give in . . . but Mama was right. It was time I was married, and Rhys Maddox was certainly among the more interesting of my suitors. If only he would smile. Yet when he danced with me, there was a something . . . something rather strange that fluttered through me. I’d thought it fear. Fear of his being so different from English gentlemen, fear of his glower, of the physical strength that radiated from him as scorching as a sunbeam. But perhaps it was more than that . . .

  Could I do it? Accept exile in a country where I did not even speak the language? I suppose, looking back, the exotic flavor of it went to my head. I felt like a Medieval heiress, perhaps even a princess, bartered to a foreign lord for the sake of an alliance—just as the daughters of Welsh warrior princes and English border lords had been bartered to the other side for centuries in a vain hope for peace. Alas, the marriages might have lasted, but the peace treaties seldom survived long enough for the ink to dry on the settlement papers.

  I bowed my head, drew a deep breath. This was the year 1818, and I did not have to be submissive unless I chose to be. Papa would not drag me, screaming, to the altar. Yet . . . perhaps this time it would not be wise to say no. “Very we
ll, Mama, I will go to the drawing room.” Though I could not resist adding, “But I make no promises. Mr. Maddox will have to convince me—”

  “Jocelyn Eleanor Hawley, no more of this nonsense. You will do what is expected of you.”

  At Mama’s unexpectedly sharp response, I dropped a rather pert curtsy, tossed an eye-rolling glance to my cousin, and swept out, head high. Rhys Maddox, I dare you to convince me to marry you.

  He was standing in front of one of the tall windows facing the street, his too long mane of black hair topping a neck more stiff than a royal duke. Actually . . . I choked back a nervous giggle, for Rhys Maddox’s neck and shoulders, his whole stance, was far more stiff than that of the obese Prince of Wales—a title claimed by English kings to show their dominion over the small but belligerent country to the west.

  At the snick of the closing door, he turned. I suppose he could be called attractive, if one liked rugged men. Frankly, I thought he looked as if he were descended from Matilda’s grandfather, the blacksmith, for he was sturdy rather than graceful. Yet his eyes were blue, sharp and piercing as a hawk searching for prey. As much as I might wish to deny it, Mama was right. An aura of power surrounded him, forcing me to concede that in Rhys Maddox his princely ancestors just might have been resurrected.

  Did he like what he saw, I wondered. An Anglo-Saxon-Viking blend in which the Norse had triumphed in white blond hair and blue eyes. Eyes slightly paler than his own brilliant blue—a trait I had not expected with black hair. Clearly, the Vikings had not missed Wales in their travels.

  “Miss Hawley.” He bowed.

  No one could fault his manners, his fashionable clothing. Even his glowering looks did not offend me. Yet I somehow felt diminished, as if with this man I would have to fight to be me—something I could not like. I moved slowly toward the sofa, playing out the moment of decision as long as I could. As I arranged my gown of palest rose silk over the cream brocade sofa, I kept my eyes down, presenting a suddenly not-so-false impression of a shy young miss.

  Panic threatened. I was shockingly spoiled, I knew that. My two older brothers, Tom and George, took the brunt of Papa’s wrath as they were trained in business matters, leaving me to be the apple of my father’s eye, the overindulged pet of the family. But this was different. Both Papa and Mama had drawn the line . . . and, truthfully, Rhys Maddox was the best of my current suitors.

  Yet Wales was so far away.

  A mere hundred miles from Birmingham, hissed a voice in my head. Alas, my grasp of geography was far better than most. Papa was not one of those who believed women should be confined to skills in housewifery, a touch of the arts, and a smattering of French. My education had been far superior to that of most girls my age.

  Which was, I had to admit, a mark in Mr. Maddox’s favor. No one could dispute the degree of intelligence that shown from those bright blue eyes. And evidently he had not been put off by my occasional lapses into conversations that revealed I could speak of more than gowns and balls, fripperies and the latest on dits.

  “Miss Hawley?” I had the distinct impression he had said my name more than once.

  I looked up, swallowed hard. After I seated myself on the sofa, I had expected him to sit in the chair facing me. Instead, he was standing over me. Too close. Much too close.

  He caught my indrawn breath, or perhaps my eyes flashed an alarm, for he took a long step back and clasped his hands behind his back. It was not enough. I, the pampered pet of a family of great wealth, had never fully understood the term “intimidating.” Until now.

  I might have been overindulged by my family, but my education in the social niceties had been as demanding as all my other studies. I steadied my nerves and gave Mr. Maddox my full attention. A man making an offer of marriage was entitled to no less, even though at the moment my inner self was quite at odds with my reaction on similar occasions. With all my other suitors I had been calm and collected, even sympathetic as I listened to a variety of flattering speeches that ranged from carefully prepared to stuttering and incoherent. But this time I had to fight to maintain a façade of polite indifference. My pulse raced, my heart pounded. A lump in my throat threatened to keep me from making any response at all. To make matters worse, my stomach seemed poised to rebel at any moment.

  No-o-o! My inner voice wailed a warning. In the past I had feared nothing worse than missing a figure in a dance. Now I was literally quaking as Mr. Maddox launched into what appeared to be a lengthy discourse. Oh dear, I had already missed some of it. Something about assuring Papa he was able to support a wife? And now . . .

  “We are a small country, Miss Hawley. The reason we have four hundred castles in very little space is that the English kings granted titles the length and breadth of our border to men who would build those castles and keep us contained.”

  “The Marcher lords,” I murmured.

  “Indeed.” He shot me a sharp glance, as if surprised by my immediate comprehension, but quickly returned to his set course. “We retaliated, burned the castles, built our own in their place. Which the English, in turn, attacked and destroyed. A never-ending cycle.” Mr. Maddox paused, scowling, his mind clearly focused on the past. With an infinitesimal shake of his head, he returned to his prepared words. “Wales is comprised mostly of mountains, with very little arable land and meager income. After eight or nine hundred years of war, we finally gave in. A great triumph for the English who capped their joy by decreeing that the heir to the English throne should be titled the Prince of Wales.”

  “And a more sorry successor to the princes of Wales has never existed.”

  This time Mr. Maddox did not hide his surprise. A moment of silence was followed by the first bark of laughter I had ever heard from him. Which devolved into a quizzical smile, also a first.

  “I fear if I, the descendant of Welsh princes, agreed with you, Miss Hawley, it would be considered treason.” Suddenly needing to escape his penetrating gaze, I studied the tip of the rosy silk slipper peeking out from beneath the hem of my gown.

  “The truth,” Mr. Maddox said after a long moment of awkward silence, “is that I am attempting to explain why I am making you an offer. You are already aware, of course, that your marriage portion is more than generous.” One long-fingered hand shot up from behind his back and riffled through his hair. Ah. Perhaps I was not the only one suffering from an attack of nerves.

  “During those hundreds of years of war, there were many attempts to make peace by contracting marriages across the border. And even though Welshmen now fight for England instead of against, it seemed a good idea to add fresh blood to our line.” A ragged indrawn breath punctuated his soliloquy. “It would make this easier, girl, if you would but look at me!”

  Startled, I gasped aloud, my wide-eyed gaze shooting up to meet his, even as my stomach contents threatened to make it past the lump in my throat.

  “I do not have the glib tongue of a Welsh bard, Miss Hawley,” he continued with icy formality. “What I am attempting to say is that although I am far from impoverished, I need more capital to improve the lives of the people for which I am responsible. The people who attempt to work our rocky land, the miners in the coal pit, the men in the iron foundry, their families and their children. I freely admit I need your portion to purchase controlling interest in a copper mine that is being badly managed. A mine that will not show profit for some time.” He paused, and I had the feeling he might be considering words not carefully planned in advance. “I assure you, Miss Hawley, there were heiresses to be found closer to home. I ventured into a London Season so I might have a wider choice, the hope of finding a woman who was attractive on the inside as well as the outside. Hope of a life of companionship rather than disharmony.”

  He likes me? He actually likes me? But could I believe him? The Welsh were, after all, renowned storytellers.

  “I cannot assure you that adapting to our way of life will be easy, but I will do everything I can to assist you, for I believe that in the course of time w
e will suit.” I thought I caught a flash of strong emotion in his eyes, though his face remained sculpted in stone.

  Suit? Either he was attempting to conciliate me or he was a fool. “It would appear times have not changed very much, Mr. Maddox. I can almost hear Medieval laughter echoing down the centuries, mocking yet another disastrous English-Welsh alliance.”

  “I had not thought you a cynic, Miss Hawley. More a woman capable of rising to a challenge.”

  That did it, of course. As he knew it would. “Let me be as frank with you as you have been with me,” I said. “It is time I was wed. My other suitors are blatant fortune-hunters or idle spendthrifts desperate enough not to mind the smell of the shop. You are a man of means in search of capital to increase your wealth and improve the lives of those dependent on you. An entire valley, as I understand.”

  He nodded. “I should have mentioned that I am intrigued by your intelligence, Miss Hawley, and by the fact that your father has nurtured it.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, and meant it, adding, “You are right, of course. Though my life has been overly comfortable and uneventful, I am not afraid of a challenge. I would, in fact, welcome something beyond my circumscribed existence.”

  He stepped forward, took my hand, and the room spun away. I scarcely heard his words. Or mine. I must have said yes because he dropped my hand, stepped back, and made me a formal bow. “Miss Hawley, I vow to do my best to see you do not regret this.”

  Then he strode to the door, opened it, and was gone, leaving a hollow space behind, as if he had sucked the air from the room. But I had no time to analyze the odd phenomenon, for in a trice my parents swept in and all was chaos.

  What had I done?

  I had just agreed to be a Welshman’s Bride.