The Bride Trilogy

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoy Royal’s Bride. It’s the first in my new Brides trilogy, a series that revolves around the handsome Dewar brothers and the women they come to love.

Reese’s Bride is next. Retired from the cavalry, Reese Dewar has returned to Briarwood, the home he inherited from his grandfather. There he intends to make a life for himself that does not include battle. Instead, Reese will be forced to confront his painful past and the woman who betrayed him, the beautiful widow Elizabeth Clemens Holloway, the woman he once loved.

Now Reese must face his toughest challenge—staying away from the lovely, lonely widow he could never trust when all he can think of is getting her into his bed.

I hope you’ll watch for Reese’s Bride, and that you enjoy!

All best wishes,

Kat

Royal’s Bride

Kat Martin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To the Martin family, all such wonderful people.

I’m so lucky to have them!

One

England, 1854

Royal Dewar crossed the massive oak-beamed entry of Bransford Castle, his tall black riding boots ringing on the wide-planked wooden floor. As he strode past the main drawing room, so impressive with its high, Tudor-style ceilings and heavy beams, he tried to ignore the worn Persian carpets, the way the bright reds and vivid blues he recalled from his youth had faded to shadowy, lackluster hues.

As he climbed the wide, carved mahogany staircase, he tried not to notice the feel of the wooden banister beneath his hand, once polished to a rich patina but now dull from years of neglect.

He had been home for less than two weeks, returned to England from his family’s plantation, Sugar Reef, in Barbados, where he had been living for the past seven years. His father had fallen ill and the family solicitor, Mr. Edward Pinkard, had sent for him.

The Duke of Bransford is dying, the letter had said. In all haste, my lord, please come home before it is too late.

He was home at last, grateful to have this brief time with his father, but the house was dreary and in desperate need of repair, and he was unused to being cooped up inside. At dawn, after checking on his father’s condition, he had headed for the stables. He hadn’t ridden Bransford lands in the past eight years and he looked forward to becoming reacquainted with his home.

Though the winter wind was chill, the sky gray and cloudy, Royal enjoyed the ride immensely, surprising himself a bit. The hot climate of Barbados had seeped into his bones and his skin was sun-darkened from his work out in the sugarcane fields. Yet this morning, with the brisk wind in his face and the open fields stretching as far as he could see, he realized how much he had missed England.

It was late morning when he returned to the house, swinging down from the big gray stallion that had been a gift on his twenty-first birthday, a colt he had named Jupiter that now stood seventeen hands high. He handed the reins to a waiting groom.

“See he gets an extra ration of oats, will you, Jimmy?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Feeling only a little guilty for leaving with his father so ill, Royal hurried into the house and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Striding down the hall, he paused for a moment to collect himself outside the door to the duke’s bedroom suite.

A strip of light seeped from beneath the heavy wooden panel, indicating a lamp burned inside. Royal turned the silver handle, opened the door and strode into the massive, dimly lit chamber. Across the room, his father lay beneath the covers of a huge four-poster bed encased in heavy gold velvet hangings, the shell of the man he had once been.

The duke’s valet and most trusted servant, George Middleton, hurried forward on long, spindly legs, his shoulders stooped from years of service and now resignation.

“It is good you are back, my lord.”

“How is he, Middleton?” Royal pulled the tie on his long scarlet woolen cloak and allowed the valet to sweep it from his shoulders.

“I am afraid, my lord, each day he grows weaker. Waiting for Lord Reese to arrive is all that keeps him going.”

Royal nodded. He prayed his brother, two years younger than his own twenty-nine years and a major in the British cavalry, would reach Bransford before it was too late. His third and youngest brother, Rule, had already arrived, home from his studies at Oxford.

Royal glanced toward the velvet curtains and saw Rule sitting in the shadows next to their father’s bedside. Rule rose and started forward. Tall and broad-shouldered with the lean-muscled build of an athlete, Rule looked a good deal like his siblings: same straight nose, carved features and solid jaw, but unlike Royal, who had the dark blond hair and golden-brown eyes of their mother, both Reese and Rule were black-haired, with the brilliant blue eyes that belonged to the duke.

“He’s been asking for you.” Rule moved into the flickering light of the lamp on a nearby rosewood dresser, the dangling prisms throwing off a rainbow of colors. “He’s been rambling a bit. He says there is a promise you must make. He says he cannot die in peace unless you vow to see it done.”

Royal nodded, more curious than concerned. All three brothers loved their father. And all three had abandoned him years ago to follow their own selfish dreams. They owed the Duke of Bransford. His sons would do whatever he asked of them.

Following in Middleton’s wake, his brother strode past Royal out the door and closed it softly behind him, leaving him alone in the gloomy, airless room. His father had suffered three separate strokes, the first three years ago, and each more debilitating than the last. Royal should have come back to England after the first, but his father’s letters had assured him of his recovery, and Royal had wanted to believe it. He wanted to stay at Sugar Reef.

He looked down at the frail old man on the bed, once a man of unbelievable power and strength. It was sheer force of will, Royal believed, that had kept his father alive this long.

“Royal …?”

He moved to the bed, settled himself in the chair his youngest brother had vacated. “I’m right here, Father.” He reached out and clasped the duke’s thin, cold hand. Though it was warm in the bedroom, he made a mental note to stoke up the flames in the hearth.

“I am sorry … my son,” the duke said in a raspy voice, “for the poor legacy … I have left you. I have failed you … and your … brothers.”

“It’s all right, Father. Once you are back on your feet—”

“Do not talk … nonsense, boy.” He took a few wheezing breaths, his mouth drooping slightly, and Royal fell silent. “I’ve lost it all. I am not … not even sure exactly how it happened. Somehow it just … slipped away.”

Royal didn’t have to ask what his father meant. The furniture missing from the drawing rooms, the bare spots on the walls where exquisite gilt-framed paintings once had hung, the general dilapidated condition of what had once been one of the grandest houses in England told the story.

“In time, our fortune can be rebuilt,” Royal said. “The Bransford dukedom will be as mighty as it ever was.”

“Yes … I am certain it will be.” He coughed, dragged in a shaky breath. “I know I can … count on you, Royal … you and your brothers. But it won’t be easy.”

“I will see it done, Father, I promise you.”

“And so you … shall. And I am going to help you … even after I am dead and buried.”

Royal’s chest squeezed. He knew his father was going to die. It was only a matter of time. Still, it was difficult to accept that a man once as strong and vital as the duke would actually be gone.

“Did you hear what I said … Royal?”

He had, but only dimly. “Yes, Father, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“There is a way … my son. The simplest … of ways. Marriage to the right woman will give you … the money you need.” His frail hold tightened on Royal’s hand. “I have found her, son. The perfect … woman.”

Royal straightened in his chair, certain his father must have returned to his former rambling.

“She is beautiful …” the duke continued. “An exquisite creature … worthy of becoming your duchess.” The old man’s strength seemed to grow with every word, and for a moment, the dull glaze over his eyes lifted, turning them the fierce blue of his youth. “She is an heiress, my boy … inherited a fortune from her grandfather. And the size of her dowry is incredible. You will be a wealthy man again.”

“You should rest. I can come back—”

“Listen to me, son. I have already spoken to her … father, a man named Henry Caulfield. Caulfield dotes on her. He is determined … to give her a title. The arrangements have already … been made.” He wheezed in a breath, coughed, but his hold on Royal’s hand never weakened. “After a suitable period of mourning … you will marry Jocelyn Caulfield. With her fortune … and your resolve … you can rebuild the house and return our lands to their former glory.”

The duke’s grip grew fierce. Royal was amazed he had that much strength. And he realized his father wasn’t rambling. Indeed, he knew exactly what he was saying. “Promise me you will do it. Say you will marry the girl.”

Royal’s heart was thumping oddly. He owed his father, yet deep inside, some part of him wanted to refuse, to rebel against a life that had been dictated for him. Though he had been trained to assume the duties of duke, he hadn’t expected to face those duties so soon.

His mind rushed backward. At two-and-twenty, he had hied himself off to adventure in the Caribbean. He had taken over the running of the family plantation. The vast acreage had been of little value when he had assumed the role as owner. Through hours of back-breaking labor, he had created a domain he could be proud of, made the plantation the success it was today.

He had known one day he would be called back home. He had known he would face responsibilities beyond anything he had handled in the past.

But he hadn’t expected his father to die so soon.

Or to inherit a title and lands that had been stripped completely bare.

His father’s grip slackened, his energy drained. The corner of his mouth drooped as it had before. “Promise me …”

Royal swallowed. His father was dying. How could he refuse his dying wish?

“Please …” the duke whispered.

“I will marry her, Father, as you wish. You have my word.”

The duke made a faint nod of his head. A slow breath whispered out and his eyes slowly closed. For an instant, Royal feared he was dead. Then his chest weakly inflated, and Royal felt a sweep of relief. Releasing his father’s cold hand, he slipped it beneath the covers and eased away from the bed. He paused long enough to build up the fire, then left the suite.

As he stepped outside, he spotted Rule pacing the hallway. His brother jerked to a halt as Royal quietly closed the door.

“Is he …?”

“He is as he was.” He released a breath. “He has arranged a marriage. The woman comes with an enormous dowry, enough to begin rebuilding the family lands and holdings. I have agreed to the match.”

Rule frowned, drawing his black eyebrows together. “Are you certain that is what you wish to do?”

Royal’s mouth barely curved. “I am not sure of anything, brother, except that I have made a vow and now I must keep it.”

The burial of the Duke of Bransford took place on a windy, overcast, frigid morning in January. The proceedings had actually begun several days earlier, with a lengthy funeral service given by the Archbishop at Westminster Abbey. It was attended by a score of nobles and dozens of London’s elite.

Afterward, the coffin was transported to the village of Bransford via an extravagant black carriage and four matching black horses for a graveside service and the final interment of the late duke’s body in the family’s private plot adjacent to the village church.

A number of family members were in attendance, including the duke’s aging aunt, Agatha Edgewood, Dowager Countess of Tavistock, as well as numerous other aunts and cousins, some Royal hadn’t known existed. Some, like vultures, had come to discover if they might receive a bequest in the late duke’s will. Those few had a surprise in store for them since little unentailed property or monies remained in the family coffers.

Royal stared down at the gleaming bronze casket that held his father’s remains and a thick lump swelled in his throat. He should have come home sooner, should have spent more time with the man who had sired him. He should have helped him manage his vast affairs. Perhaps if he had, the dukedom wouldn’t have fallen into ruin. Perhaps his father wouldn’t have worried himself into an early grave.

Royal gazed at the coffin, which blurred for an instant behind a film of tears. His father was gone. The sixth Duke of Bransford had passed away peacefully two hours after the arrival of his middle son.

Reese and the duke had been cosseted together briefly, and another vow was made. By no later than the date his twelve-year enlistment was up, Reese would leave the military and return to Wiltshire. He would take over the lands and manor at Briarwood, a nearby property Reese had inherited from their maternal grandfather. He would rebuild those lands and make them and his life productive.

Reese, the most stubborn of the duke’s three offspring, enjoyed his freedom, his military life and his travels. He wanted nothing less than being bound to a chunk of land he saw as a place that would hold him prisoner. But in the end, as his father’s life drained away before his very eyes, Reese had agreed.

Rule, the wildest and least responsible, had made his pledge before Royal arrived. The duke believed an alliance with the Americans was in the family’s best interest. His youngest son had pledged to do whatever it took to make that alliance a fact.

The vicar’s words cut into Royal’s thoughts, turning them away from events of the past few weeks and returning him to the words being said over his father’s coffin.

A sharp wind tossed his long woolen cloak and cut through his heavy black tailcoat and dark gray trousers as he stood at the graveside. Next to him, Reese wore the scarlet-and-white dress uniform of a major in the British cavalry, the breeze slashing at his thick, wavy black hair. He was the most sober of the brothers, his features harder, reflecting the life he lived.

Royal’s gaze moved to his youngest brother. Rule had been an unexpected addition to the family, born almost six years after Reese to a mother in ill health who had been warned against having more children. Amanda Dewar had died in childbirth, leaving Rule in the dubious care of a nanny, his two older brothers and a father who often drank to bury his grief or hid himself away in his study.

Rule had survived to become the most reckless of the three. He had a reputation as an incorrigible rake and he wore it proudly. He loved the ladies and seemed to make it a personal challenge to bed as many beautiful women as he possibly could.

Royal almost smiled. His own future had already been decided. He would marry a woman named Jocelyn Caulfield. A woman he had yet to meet. She was out of the country at present, enjoying a European tour with her mother. Royal was glad.

The period of mourning for his father would last a year. There would be time enough to arrange a marriage after that.

Meanwhile, he had money of his own, income from Sugar Reef, funds sufficient to keep the dukedom afloat, if not enough to rebuild the fortune his father had lost.

In time it would happen, Royal vowed. He would not rest until he saw it done.

In the meantime, he would learn what he could of his duties as duke, investigate his holdings, see how best to resurrect his father’s flagging investments and try to make them profitable again.

As his father had said, it wouldn’t be easy.

Royal vowed that by the time he was wed, he would know how to best use the money gained from the marriage his father had arranged.

Two

London, England One Year Later

Jocelyn Caulfield stood in front of the cheval glass in her bedroom overlooking the gardens at Meadowbrook, her family’s mansion at the edge of Mayfair in a district of larger, newer homes. Dressed in a corset, chemise and drawers, the garments as ruffled as the white silk counterpane on her four-poster bed and the crisscross curtains at the windows, she surveyed her curvaceous figure in the mirror.

“I hope I am not putting on weight.” She clamped her hands on the bone stays that trimmed her waist to a scant eighteen inches and frowned, pulling her sleek, dark eyebrows together over a pair of violet eyes. “What do you think, Lily?”

Her third cousin and companion of the past six years, Lily Moran, laughed from a few feet away. “You have a perfect figure and you know it.”

Jocelyn smiled mischievously. “Do you think the duke will notice?”

Lily just shook her head. “Every man who sees you notices, Jo.” Though the women were both average in height, unlike Jocelyn, Lily was blond and slender, with pale sea-green eyes and lips she considered a little too full. She was pretty in a more subtle, less vibrant way, not at all like Jo, who was the sort to stop a man where he stood and leave him simply staring.

“Have you finished packing for the trip?” Jocelyn asked. Which meant, Lily, have you also finished mine? Jo didn’t trust Elsie, her ladies’ maid, to choose exactly the right wardrobe for a trip to meet her soon-to-be betrothed, the Duke of Bransford. It was Lily she trusted, Lily, one year older, whom she had come to depend on over the years.

“I am nearly finished,” Lily said. “I have everything but your undergarments laid out for you in your dressing room. All you have to do is have Phoebe pack the gowns away in your trunks before you leave.”

Jocelyn turned to survey her figure from a different angle. “I wonder what the house will be like. Father says Bransford Castle is quite a dreadful place—though I gather, until the last few years, it was one of the grandest homes in England. It isn’t truly a castle, you know. It is only three hundred years old. It is huge, Father says, four stories high, built in a U shape with an interior garden and any number of turrets and towers. It even has a hedge maze.”

Jocelyn’s smile displayed a set of perfect white teeth. “Father says I should have a marvelous time putting it back to rights.”

Lily smiled indulgently. “I am certain you will.” Though she imagined Jo would be bored with the project after the first six months and her mother would wind up finishing the remodeling and redecorating the newly titled duchess would require of her lavish country home.

“I hope Mother and I will be able to endure such quarters. I am glad we shan’t be staying much more than a week.” Just long enough for Jocelyn and her future betrothed to get acquainted. “I am so glad I decided you should travel to Bransford a few days early. That should give you time to make the place comfortable for us.”

“I’m sure the duke will do everything in his power to see to you and your mother’s comfort, Jocelyn.”

Jo reached over and took hold of Lily’s hand. “But you will take care of it personally, won’t you? You know the things that please me … exactly how I like my cocoa in the mornings, how hot I like the water in my bath. You will prepare the servants, explain my special needs?”

“Of course.”

Jocelyn started to turn away, then whirled back. “Oh, and don’t forget to take the dried rose petals. They scent my bath just perfectly.”

“I won’t forget.” Lily had been taking care of Jocelyn since the day she had arrived at Meadowbrook six years ago. It had been quite a change for Lily, who had been living in poverty since her parents had died of the cholera when she was twelve years old.

On her sixteenth birthday, her uncle, Jack Moran, had made the announcement that Lily would be leaving the attic garret where they lived. From that day forward, she would be residing with her wealthy cousin, Henry Caulfield, and his wife, Matilda, acting as companion to their fifteen-year-old daughter and only child, Jocelyn.

Lily hadn’t wanted to go. She loved her uncle. He and his friends were the only family she had, once her parents were gone. She had begged him to let her stay, but he had refused. Jack Moran was a sharper. He earned his living by taking money from other people. Once Lily had begun to mature into a woman, he was determined she would escape the sort of life he led.

She remembered their last day together as if it were burned into her brain.

“It’s just too dangerous, Lily,” he had said. “‘Twas only last week you dropped that man’s wallet and nearly got nabbed by the police. You’re growing up, luv, becoming a woman. I want you to have a better life, the kind your mama and papa would have wanted you to have. I should have done this long before now, but I …”

“You what, Uncle Jack?” she asked tearfully.

“But you’re all the family I have, luv, and I’m going to miss you.”

Lily remembered how hard she had cried that day and the awful, sick feeling in her stomach when her uncle left her at the door of Henry Caulfield’s mansion. She hadn’t seen Uncle Jack since that fateful day and Lord, how she missed him. Yet, deep down inside, she knew he had done the right thing.