Twelfth Night Betrothal

Chapter 1

“Where the hell have you brought me?”

Flynn Sutherland reined in his horse and glared at his friend. From their vantage point at the top of the hill, he could see a castle brimming with guests. Litters, horses, and even some people on foot were making their way toward the open gates.

“What do you mean?” Alistair asked innocently, as if he could not see what was in front of them. “You need to make connections, my lord, and I thought this would be a good way to start.”

The use of his new title in his childhood friend’s mouth stung. “Don’t you dare call me anything other than Flynn,” he warned. “Not you.” The two men had grown up together, and even though he now outranked Sir Alistair, Flynn didn’t want their friendship to suffer from the spectacular reversal of fate. He had already given up much in the last week. He would not lose his best friend as well.

“Fret not, I will carry on using your name when no one can hear. But I will call you ‘my lord’ when we’re in company. It is only proper. We can’t always have our own way in life.”

“Mm. Don’t I know it,” Flynn murmured between gritted teeth.

All his life he had hankered after recognition and wished his father would acknowledge him, the bastard son he’d fathered on a maid in the employ of Alistair’s parents. And finally, the week before, he’d gotten his wish. In the absence of other, legitimate children to carry on the family line, his dying father had named him as his heir. It was a bittersweet victory. Flynn had never wanted honors and titles, only to know he was more in the man’s mind than a shameful secret.

Not to mention that the title and fortune he had been given came at a hefty price.

“Now that you are my heir, you will do your duty by me as I have done by you, boy. I was set to marry next month. You will marry the woman in my stead. The marriage contract has already been drawn, and you are expected in London at the beginning of the year to conclude the arrangement.”

There would be no going around it. In the space of a few weeks Flynn would become a titled lord, a rich man, and a husband.

“Come, my friend. The Earl of Redding is renowned for being a lavish host. Christmastide at Redding Castle is said to rival even the festivities at court. I thought you would appreciate spending your last days as a free man surrounded by beautiful ladies.”

“So that I see what I am forfeiting by marrying the dowager?” Flynn sneered. “Thanks, I’m touched.”

Alistair made a face. “I know you have to marry the woman, and I sympathize. But nowhere in the will does it say you have to be faithful to her, or even that you have to bed her. Given her age, she might not be able to have children anyway, and since she is a widow, she won’t be a virgin hankering after your attention. You could give her permission to find herself a lover while you carry on living the life you’ve always led.”

Oh, God. Could this get any worse? “Is this supposed to make me feel better? he snapped. What a picture his friend was painting.

“I was trying to make you see that you don’t have to stop being yourself now that you’ve finally become someone.”

“Don’t I?” That was exactly what it felt like. Everything, from his daily routine down to the way he dressed, had been altered in the last few days. People took notice of him now, he had responsibilities, he could not carry on living the same carefree existence.

And yet he was the same man he had been a fortnight ago. He didn’t feel any different.

It didn’t make sense.

Alistair nudged his horse back into a trot. “It’s about time you took your rightful place in the world. You are not plain Flynn anymore, no matter how much you may dislike it. So you might as well make the most of it. It’s Christmas, a time for revelry and merriment. What’s the worst that could happen?”

****

“You have in front of you the Lord of Misrule.” Will’s grin was as wide as Heather had ever seen it. “You may congratulate me.”

She shook her head and smiled. Trust her friend to have been chosen. Why had she even doubted he would be? No one could stand up to him when he set his mind on a task. “Is there anything you want in life that you haven’t had yet?”

At the question, a shadow came to veil Will’s face.

“Only one, a thing of little importance. True love.”

She mentally kicked herself for being so insensitive. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Will’s fate was hardly more enviable than her own. Because his preferences were not deemed to be the norm, he had never found a life partner. Conquests he made, but happiness eluded him. The men who shared his bed lacked the courage to accept what they truly wanted, and appearances had to be preserved.

“But this is not about me.” He gave her a light tap on the nose, a man determined not to dwell on his own misery. “I have been given leave to preside over the festivities over Christmastide, and I mean to ensure you capture the interest of at least one of the participants before we leave.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Leave it to me.” He winked at her. “Wicked Wexford doesn’t stand a chance.”

“I wish you would stop calling him ‘Wicked Wexford’.” Heather hardly needed reminding that her betrothed was George’s cousin and bound to be as nasty.

“It matters not what I call him. Trust me, this time next year, he will be a distant nightmare.”

Oh. If only he could be right…

Later that evening she stood in the sumptuously decorated great hall of Redding Castle with all the other guests. Garlands of holly adorned the walls, and green boughs tied up with ribbon framed the huge fireplace in which a fire was roaring. The air was scented with beeswax candles and festive spices coming from the sweetmeats piled up on the table in the corner.

It was a magnificent sight, but try as she may, Heather just could not rejoice.

Last Christmas Eve George had proposed and she had been relieved to accept an offer which would save her family.

Months of misery had followed. Now she was a widow and another marriage was looming. Only this time she was not a na?ve young maiden, and she knew her chances of finding fulfilment in this union were slim, at best. Viscount Wexford was worse than a stranger, he was an old man widowed twice over and kin to the meanest man she had ever met. He had asked his cousin to find him a pretty little wife to sweeten his last years. Chances were that he would not have any problem bedding her, unfortunately. In fact, she suspected that was all he would want to do with her.

Determined to push these grim considerations out of her mind, she looked around the room—and blinked.

A man was standing by the table of sweetmeats.

Her heart stopped and she had the absurd notion someone had just hit her over the head.

During her marriage to George she had made a habit of comparing every man she met with her husband. It was her paltry way of making herself feel better, because for all his faults, the Earl of Marsham had cut a striking figure. Physically, he was everything a woman could want, and she’d had her fair share of envious looks thrown her way in the last year. As their marriage progressed, and his true nature was revealed, she had tried to find some comfort in the fact that on the outside, at least, George Wetherby was the embodiment of the perfect knight—tall, broad, strong and handsome. Women were jealous of her and did not try to hide it.

And so, for a brief moment, she could fool herself she was married to a man who appealed to her.

But she did not even try to compare the man standing in the corner to the man she had been married to. They were both men, they both had eyes, legs, and hair. That was where the similarities ended. One might as well compare two dogs, for argument’s sake, but the moment a wolf appeared you stopped wondering which one had more elegance, more stamina or more powers of fascination. The answer stared at you right in the face with burning eyes, and you just knew.

Heather swallowed. My…

Who was the blond stranger? And more to the point, how could she hope to attract his attention?

She knew she was not the most appealing of the women the earl had invited. Without being ugly, she had never been what people would call a ravishing beauty, causing men to stare at her with longing in their eyes. Now, after her marriage to George, it was even worse. Her chestnut hair was not as shiny as it once had been, sadness had dimmed the blue in her eyes, making them appear almost gray, and a year of misery had taken its toll on her once-graceful figure. She felt frumpy, transparent, older than her twenty-one years. In the midst of the splendid guests, she would melt into the background as surely as a simple daisy in a rose garden.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Redding Castle,” Will’s voice boomed, jolting her out of her reverie. “’Tis time the revelry began. I am the Lord of Misrule, and my wish will be your command over the next few days. I would say that you are in good hands, but I’m afraid this would be a lie. My hands have performed all sorts of deeds, most of them naughty, if admittedly pleasurable for all involved.”

A few giggles mingled with excited whispers started to course about the room at his declaration. Heather could not help a smile. One had to love Will.

“I am not in charge anymore,” the Earl of Redding, a congenial man in his early fifties declared. “You will have to defer to the Lord of Misrule until Twelfth Night.”

“Well spoken, Thomas! From now on I shall be your lord and master.”

For a moment everyone in the hall held their breath. Will had not only called the earl by his given name, but he had also ordered him about. Had he taken a step too far? Then, to Heather’s relief, the earl roared in laughter.

“That’s the spirit! Irreverence and sheer bawdiness will rule from now on.”

This statement was welcomed enthusiastically. Heather groaned inwardly. Will was irreverent and bawdy at the best of times. Now he was encouraged to be outrageous. This might well turn out to be a disaster.

As if to prove her right, he cleared his throat and stepped onto the dais.

“It is my desire to bring about as many couples as I can during this festive time, so that next year I can bask in the satisfaction of knowing dozens of children owe their existence to me, and me alone.” Another wave of giggles rippled through the room. “Ladies, will those of you who are not married or betrothed already kindly step into the adjoining room where you will find masks for you to wear. Our little game is about to commence.”

Masks. Oh, Lord, what did Will have in mind now?

Heather hesitated, because of course she was already betrothed, even if no one here knew it, and as such not eligible for the game. A stern glance from the Lord of Misrule warned her she had better comply. Resigned to her fate, she followed a group of excited women into the appointed room.

“Lord, I think we all know what’s coming next,” Alistair groaned, emptying his cup of spiced wine in one gulp. “The fool is going to request all the unattached men to come forward. And that, unfortunately, means me.”

“And me,” Flynn added, draining his own cup with decision.

“You’re hardly unattached! What about the old crone?”

“Will you stop calling her that!” he snapped. Was his friend determined to aggravate him? He didn’t need to be reminded he was set to marry someone his father had thought suitable for himself—he was already having nightmares about it. “You dragged me here so I could make the most of my last days as a free man, remember? So I will do just that, and I’ll thank you for keeping your comments to yourself for once!”

Just then the group of ladies came back into the room. They were all wearing identical white masks edged with feathers curling over their foreheads and a piece of white lace stuck to the cheeks to hide their noses and mouths. There were about twenty of them, and it was impossible to recognize anyone.

Not that Flynn knew who these people were anyway. As a lowly servant, he hadn’t had cause to meet any of them.

“Will twenty brave gentlemen willing to be shackled by love’s tender bonds step into the middle of the room?” The Lord of Misrule was a tall, wiry man dressed in a shocking hue of green that fitted his role to perfection. Flynn had the impression, however, that this was his own tunic, not one provided by the earl to ensure everyone knew who was in charge. Which meant that the man had been born for this moment—and this role. “And do not think to hide, gentlemen! I will only find you, and then you’ll be sorry. I am not above spanking anyone.”

The women under the masks let out scandalized gasps, and the older men around the room smirked.

“Here goes.” Alistair sighed. “Shackled, indeed. What an idiotic game this is!”

“Yes,” Flynn agreed. But taking part in it would be marginally better than watching.

He took his place with nineteen other gentlemen.

“The men will stand in a circle, facing each other, while the ladies dance around them like beautiful, ethereal swans.” This time giggles greeted his words. The women apparently liked this idea better than spanking. “When the music stops, so will the ladies. The men will then turn around and each will face the woman directly behind him, remove her mask, reveal her face and fall in love with her.”

A snort escaped Flynn’s nose. How dramatic! Fall in love with a perfect stranger, and at first sight, no less? That would be a Christmas miracle indeed. He glanced at Alistair, standing next to him, knowing his friend had even less chance of falling for the woman he would unveil than he had. Alistair rolled his eyes, indicating he knew what he was thinking. Still, they were in the circle now. They had little choice but to go along with the farce.

A moment later, a musician struck the first chord and, as one, the women started dancing.

“Come, ladies, ethereal swans, I said. Some of you bear more resemblance to clucking pigeons, I swear!”

Muffled laughter coursed around the room, followed by whispered comments. Flynn’s lips quivered. The man was good, he had to admit. Perhaps he would enjoy himself tonight after all.

All he had to do was wait to see who he would be paired with.

Heather tripped on her own feet and almost lost her balance. What was Will doing, putting her off like this with his talk of clucking pigeons? She didn’t need the extra pressure, not when she was not the best dancer and was already worried about the man he would select for her. She’d recognized some of the men in the circle. What if she ended up stopping behind the tall knight who looked at women like a cat looked at a mouse? Or Baron Peltham? The lace over her nose would not be enough protection against his foul breath. Oh, this could well turn out to be a disaster.

Or…or maybe she would strike it lucky.

To her surprise, upon coming out of the room, she had seen the blond stranger in the circle, which meant she could end up being paired with him. Had Will noticed the way she had looked at him earlier and forced him to join the waiting men? Was this what this farce was about? Did he intend to bring them together? Would he time the music so that she would be faced with the man when it stopped?

She dearly hoped so.

Although… There had been no time to inform her friend that, against all odds, she had seen a man who took her fancy. She knew his tastes ran more to the rugged warriors than the refined gentlemen. What if he decided the dark-haired giant standing to the man’s right was the man for her? He would consider him the most attractive of the men in the room, she knew, and he was admittedly striking.

The only problem was that she wanted another.

Oh, why had she agreed to this mad scheme? It would serve no purpose except giving her vain hope. For a long moment she did her best to clear her mind of worry. Will was issuing various instructions, each more outrageous than the last. The men should henceforth think of the women as their “sweethearts” and the women of the men as their “beloveds,” the couples were given leave to address one another by their given names, and they would spend the whole of the festivities in close proximity.

Heather danced, focusing on her steps to make sure she did not make a fool of herself.

And then, finally, the music stopped.