No One's Bride (Scandal Sheet Survivors Book 4), page 1
No One's Bride
Scandal Sheet Survivors
Book 4
ADELE CLEE
Contents
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
Thank you!
About the Author
Christmas in Cumbria
Books by Adele Clee
Copyright
Chapter One
Chadwick’s Auction House
Broad Street, Bloomsbury
Miss Ailsa MacTavish stood before the vast oak doors as if expecting to see an ancient Roman god standing guard. Janus was the keeper of keys, custodian of the metaphorical gateway between the present and the future. A symbol of beginnings and ends. His image was that of two faces. One gazing into the past. One staring towards one’s destiny.
Change was on the horizon.
Ailsa felt it deep in the marrow of her bones.
Whatever happened behind these doors today would likely see the end of a friendship, albeit a strained and somewhat antagonistic one. Lord Denton meant to win the rare copy of Thomas More’s Utopia and didn’t care who he trampled over in the process.
A love of old books was the only thing they had in common, and perhaps a steely determination to succeed. Indeed, while her parents had returned to the Highlands, Ailsa had remained in London for one purpose: to purchase Utopia for her private collection.
Like her Scottish forbears, she would need to hold steadfast against an English invasion. Few men tolerated a woman reading, let alone owning such a valuable antiquity.
Inhaling deeply to bolster her courage, Ailsa turned to her chaperones, Mr and Mrs Daventry. “We have five minutes until the auction begins. Hopefully, the men have taken their seats and I can sneak in unnoticed.”
It shouldn’t be difficult.
After a terrifying incident at her come-out ball five years ago, blending into the background had become an acquired skill.
“At least we know there’ll be one man amongst them who will offer you a seat,” Mrs Daventry said, the frustration of many browbeaten women evident in her tone. “They will answer to me if they attempt to throw you out.”
Ailsa smiled to herself. When a lady had married the most intelligent, most dangerous man in London, she could afford to be bold.
“I dinnae care if they give me the cut direct as long as they permit me to bid on the book.” Being a Scot and a spinster, insults rolled off her like rain on a new umbrella.
“I registered your name personally,” Mr Daventry said, confident she would not encounter a problem. “Mr Murden raised no objection and is expecting you to place a bid.”
He gestured for them to mount the stone steps and held the heavy door open before following them inside. With dark wood panels and paintings of dour men lining the walls, the large hallway was an inherently masculine space that smelled of musty coats, stale sweat and cheap cologne.
Ailsa could barely feel her legs as she climbed the stone staircase to the first floor. Her heartbeat thumped loudly in her ears. Entering a room full of grouchy men was difficult enough. Knowing Lord Denton sat amongst them added to the growing tension.
The door hinges creaked as she entered. One man turned in her direction, the lively hum of conversation dying when thirty others followed suit.
The air proved stifling.
The groans and grumbles were audible.
“Doubtless she’s suffering from a megrim and has lost her way,” said a thickset gentleman with bushy white hair. “Someone should see her out before she swoons and delays the auction.”
“It’s the MacTavish chit,” a well-groomed man sneered. “She bid on Lady Ingram’s diary last month before Denton won the memoir.”
“They’ll not let the Scots own More’s Utopia. It would be tantamount to treason. The devils will probably use it for kindling.”
The exuberant Mrs Daventry placed a reassuring hand on Ailsa’s arm. “Don’t let them intimidate you. I met my husband at an auction and had to battle against the ton’s contempt. So you see, Miss MacTavish, we are similar in many ways.”
Hardly. The lady’s vibrant red curls enhanced her womanly appeal. Ailsa had fastened her copper locks in a tight knot hidden beneath a simple poke bonnet.
Mr Daventry met the gaze of the studious gentleman behind the lectern and gave a curt nod. “Find a seat, Miss MacTavish. We’ll wait outside until the auction is over. Mr Murden won’t tolerate distractions.”
“What?” she whispered. “Ye’re leaving?”
“We’ll be within earshot,” Mr Daventry assured her.
Mr Murden cleared his throat and peered at her through crooked spectacles. “Come forward, Miss MacTavish. Time is against us. We must begin the proceedings posthaste.”
The Daventrys slipped out of the room, leaving Ailsa alone in the viper pit. With tentative steps, she approached the aisle separating the rows of crowded benches. The men spread out, making it clear there wasn’t a spare seat in the house.
She spotted Viscount Denton sitting at the end of a row. The handsome lord met her gaze, tutted and raised his blue eyes heavenward. She would rather sit on the dusty parquet floor than beg for his assistance.
Tension cut through the air.
Tears threatened to fall, but she would not give these mean men the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Ailsa raised her chin. “I shall stand, Mr Murden. I need only raise my hand to bid, and the auction should be over quickly.”
Lord Denton muttered what sounded like an expletive and stood abruptly, straightening to a height of over six feet. “There’s room for you here, Miss MacTavish.” He must have sensed her resistance. One should not mistake his golden locks for a halo. “As you say, I doubt we’ll be here long.”
Since winning the Tudor lady’s diary, since stealing it from under her nose, Ailsa had spent sleepless nights cursing him to the devil. The man had no interest in a woman’s social plight from a bygone era and had bought the book out of spite.
Still, they were friends of a sort, and her knees would likely buckle once the bidding started. It would only antagonise him more if she refused, and this was hardly the place for a verbal spar.
“I thank ye for the kind gesture, my lord.”
“Unlike some men, I’ve not forgotten my manners,” he said, glaring at the fools seated behind him. He stepped into the aisle and motioned to the sturdy oak bench.
Ailsa leaned closer and whispered, “I would prefer to sit at the end of the row, my lord.” She would not sit beside the gruff fellow who looked ready to bind her hands and prevent her from bidding.
Lord Denton bent his head, the smell of sandalwood cologne encompassing her. “Being so tall, I need to stretch my legs, madam.” He lowered his voice and fixed her with a stony expression. “You’re my main competitor. Be grateful I’ve not tossed you over my shoulder and deposited you in the broom cupboard.”
She eyed him narrowly. “I’ll warn ye to keep yer hands off my person, else I might stab ye with a hat pin.”
“Do you want to sit down or not?” he said bluntly. “Perhaps you should leave. I’m confident you’ve had a wasted journey. Nothing will prevent me from winning that book today.”
Oh, the man was beyond obstinate.
“Never underestimate a Scot.” Ailsa possessed her father’s stubbornness and was by no means afraid of this man. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than wiping that smirk off yer face.”
Aware they were the object of everyone’s attention, Lord Denton conceded. “In a bid to ease your impending disappointment, Miss MacTavish, I shall let you take my seat.”
Her heart leapt at the minor victory.
Until she sat down and realised the lord had no option but to sit at an odd angle. His knee touched hers, the sudden contact sending a jolt of awareness from her neck to her navel.
Lord Denton hissed a breath, his annoyance evident.
Eager to avoid further delays, Mr Murden demanded silence while he called the first lot. “Here we have an early eighteenth-century copy of Alexander Niccholes’ self-help manual The Discourse of Marriage and Wiving. Who will start the bidding at fifty pounds?”
A man in the front row raised a wooden paddle.
Another hand shot up.
Lord Denton remained rigid in his seat.
“Are ye nae interested in seeking help to find a wife, my lord?” she mocked. The mere mention of wives and marriage usually brought the lord out in hives.
“I made a blood oath not to marry until I’m fifty,” he uttered.
“One ye made with Mr St Clair, yet he married yer sister months ago.” After secretly loving Helen for years, it came as no surprise when Nicholas St Clair broke his oath. “I’m told ladies are scrambling to be the diamond that makes ye break yer vow.”
The man was an insufferable grouch, but even Ailsa could see he oozed an inherent masculinity that drew women in droves.
The lord tutted. “Then they’ll have a twenty-
“Ye came to bid on a book,” she corrected. She would sell her soul to the devil to prevent him from beating her again. “There’s nae guarantee ye’ll win.”
He inhaled deeply before casting her a sidelong glance. “You’re wearing perfume. Spirit of Luna. I recognise the floral notes. Interesting. I did not take you for a hypocrite.”
Only two months ago, she had chided him for wearing an excessive amount of cologne. “I havenae changed my opinion. One’s true mate is drawn to one’s natural aroma. But I hoped the cloying smell might choke my competition.”
His piercing cobalt gaze drifted over her face. “Or maybe you’re tired of looking like a spinster and seek to make a match while your parents are out of town.”
An unladylike snort escaped her, drawing many a disapproving eye. Ailsa bent her head and lowered her voice. “I’d wager every book I own ye’ll marry before I do.”
He arched a curious brow. “You would?”
Drat! The words had left her lips without thought.
Pride persuaded her there was nothing to fear. Despite her father’s insistence she find a husband, she had no desire to surrender her independence.
“Aye, if ye’re willing to do the same.”
“That’s hardly fair. I have to marry eventually.”
Ailsa smiled. “I understand. Ye’re afraid ye’ll lose.”
“I’m not afraid, madam. I merely point out that the odds are in your favour. Only a fool would make such a wager.”
The auctioneer hit the lectern with his gavel, the bang loud enough to wake the dead. “Sold to Mr Peterson for five hundred and thirty pounds. Though a wife will cost him considerably more.”
Laughter erupted. A few men shared tales of their wives’ lavish spending. The auctioneer flicked through a pile of papers while preparing for the next lot.
Keen to offer Lord Denton terms before the bidding began again, Ailsa said, “Shall we set the bar at ten years? Whoever marries first within that time frame must surrender their entire collection. Would ye consider that fair, my lord?”
The gentleman’s mouth formed an arrogant grin. “As a man of my word, one keen to keep his oath, I’m willing to commit to ten years.”
A frisson of panic coursed through her. Beneath Lord Denton’s fine coat was a spine of steel. His middle name should be Determination. Still, she held her resolve. If anything, the wager would be a shackle around her neck, a means of forcing her to follow her dreams and resist the pressure to marry.
“There must be one stipulation,” the lord said. “Should we find ourselves victims of schemers and become honour-bound to marry, the wager would become void.”
While Mr Murden presented a copy of Fables by Mr Gray, Ailsa considered the possibility of being duped by a rogue again. After the hurtful incident with Mr Ashbury five years ago, she took every care to present herself as plain and dull. One misstep and she might easily face ruin.
“Aye, if there’s proof of villainy.”
Lord Denton grinned like his horse had won the Derby. He offered his bare hand. “One shake and the oath stands.”
Ailsa glanced down—and hesitated.
For no sensible reason, her breath caught in her throat.
The man wished to seal their bargain, yet there was something captivating about his broad palm and long fingers. Like most English lords, his manicured nails conveyed wealth and elegance. Bronzed skin and bulging veins spoke of a strong, muscular body to accompany an equally resilient mind.
Would his touch be as firm as his opinions?
Or was he gentle when holding a woman in his arms?
Good Lord! Why would she even care?
“Well?” he prompted. “Had a change of heart?”
Banishing her wayward thoughts, she slid her palm over his and clasped his hand. “I abide by my oath. I’ll nae marry anyone during the term of our wager.”
Lord Denton firmed his grip and repeated the vow, his gaze shifting between her gloved hand and her face. A few furrows marred his brow. For a confident man, he appeared strangely troubled.
Was he having second thoughts?
Perhaps the heat radiating from their palms shocked him.
Perhaps an odd tingle chased up his arm, too.
When it seemed like he might never relax his grip, Ailsa snatched back her hand. She stole one more glance at his long fingers before dismissing them from her mind for good.
They fell silent.
Both faced the auctioneer.
Both sat rigid.
Seconds passed, then they happened to look at each other at precisely the same time, both releasing a grumble of annoyance.
Mr Murden smacked the lectern with his gavel again and congratulated Lord Eccles on his purchase. “Next, we have a rather unusual offering dating back to the fifteen hundreds. A grimoire of sorts.”
A grimoire?
The term made Ailsa sit bolt upright.
All thoughts turned to her visit to the mystic’s tent at the Bartholomew Fair and the crone’s cryptic prediction.
You’ll marry a man who puts you under an ancient spell.
One found in a tome of old.
It is your fate, your destiny.
Ailsa gulped when the assistant presented the red leather-bound volume. It looked thick and heavy, like it held centuries-old secrets. The gold metal corners were tarnished, perhaps from the spillage of magical potions. Like firm hands, two intricate clasps bound the pages together. A message from an otherworldly force warning the fainthearted not to dabble.
Then the assistant did the most shocking thing possible—he opened the tome and read the first few lines from a love incantation.
Ailsa contemplated jumping to her feet and begging him to stop. But the bidding started at thirty pounds, and the devil closed the book.
Every fibre of her being urged her to raise her hand.
Was it not better to own the grimoire than let it loose amongst the men of the ton? Then a shocking thought took hold. What if Lord Denton decided to bid and learnt of a spell to make her subservient?
She thrust her hand in the air, much to the lord’s surprise.
“I understood you to be an intelligent woman,” he whispered, his strong hands gripping his solid thighs as if trying to stop himself from bidding. “What the devil do you want with a book of fake incantations?”
But Ailsa didn’t answer.
A raw-boned gentleman in the front row, dressed from head to toe in black, turned and stared at her with some menace. His sharp, assessing gaze sent an icy shiver skating down her spine. In an emotionless voice, he offered forty pounds, almost defying her to bid against him.
In a room of thirty men, no one dared make a challenge.
Ailsa raised her hand again, though Lord Denton tugged the sleeve of her pelisse and whispered, “You don’t want that book. Mark my words. It will bring nothing but trouble.”
Despite feeling a little unsettled, she managed a weak smile. “Why? Do ye believe in bad omens and superstitions?” Had he visited the fortune-teller’s tent, too?
“Only people of unsound mind delve into the realms of witchcraft.” There was an urgency to his tone, a tinge of fear. “Withdraw your interest, madam. Don’t make me intervene.”
Saints and sinners!
The viscount was obstinate and often exercised his patriarchal dominance but was rarely so rude. He might be used to commanding English women but would not find a Scotswoman so biddable.
Ailsa frowned. “I can do as I please. Ye’re nae my father nor my husband.” She looked at the auctioneer and gave a curt nod. “I will pay a hundred pounds.”
“Strike the lady’s offer from the record,” the lord shouted.
A few men in the room gasped.
The sinister fellow at the front gave a wolfish grin.
“Denton’s right,” the rotter behind her mocked. “The woman’s head is full of nonsense. Heaven forbid we let her loose with a book of spells.”
