Twelfth Night Betrothal

Chapter 10

Father,

This letter may surprise you, but please, I need you to follow my instructions carefully. When Viscount Wexford comes to visit, kindly inform him that I cannot marry him as I am betrothed to another. You know my heart was never in this union and, mercifully, I have found a way out of it.

I will explain all in due time, but trust me, all shall be well in the end. I shall visit on the day after Twelfth Night, when I hope to introduce you to my new betrothed.

Your loving daughter,

Heather

She handed the missive to the waiting groom with a trembling hand. This letter would seal her fate and that of her family. She trusted her father to stand his ground against the viscount if such was her wish, but what if her trust in Flynn was misplaced? What if she arrived home to be told the marriage she dreaded had been canceled and she then had no betrothed to present? How would they all survive? Was she making a mistake in thinking she could afford to choose happiness over security?

Perhaps.

It all hung on her belief that Flynn would not forsake her. Was she being a fool to put her trust in him, a man she had met less than a fortnight ago? After all, he had not proposed, or even given her any assurances, save saying that he meant to put an end to his betrothal and did not like the idea of her marrying a man she didn’t want. It was not exactly a binding promise, and he might not feel himself accountable to her for words said in the heat of the moment, after sharing a fiery, forbidden kiss.

But deep down she could not help but feel she was right in thinking he had a part to play in her future. He’d been gone less than a day, and already she missed him like she would have missed someone she’d known all her life. Things between them couldn’t end like this.

And hadn’t they agreed to meet in a few days’ time? She had to trust in him.

“My lady?”

She realized she was still clutching the letter tight.

“Forgive me,” she told the youth with a wan smile. “Please go.”

Before I change my mind.

****

Flynn paced the length of the street, prey to an unusual anxiety. For the second time in a month his life was about to change. At the death of his father he’d become Viscount Wexford and a rich man. He was now about to become Heather’s husband, and a happy one. It was an even more momentous step, one that would turn everything on its head because this would be what gave his life meaning. An empty title and riches he had never coveted would not bring him satisfaction.

A loving wife and a satisfying marriage would.

His future happiness was within his grasp. All he had to do was speak to the man behind this nail-studded door. Unbeknownst to Heather, he’d asked Will for her father’s address before leaving Redding Castle. He intended to ask for patriarchal blessing before he went to see the dowager countess and ended their arranged betrothal. Before putting the second part of the plan into execution, which would undoubtedly be a painful moment, he needed to know he had secured Heather’s hand and her father’s support.

Not that he worried overmuch.

The man would likely be delighted to meet a titled, wealthy viscount willing to both spare his daughter from a union she did not desire and help her support her family. As plain Flynn Sutherland, he would have had no chance. As Viscount Wexford, he would be welcomed as the family’s savior.

And when he and Heather met two days hence, he would be able to put an end to both their misery.

He knocked on the door.

****

Daughter,

I did as you asked, even though I was shocked to actually meet the viscount, who was nothing like the man we expected to see. I cannot fathom what your late husband was hoping to achieve by describing his cousin as a decrepit old man, as His Lordship was nothing like that. In fact, I was surprised to find him a personable young man. A union to a man like him might well have suited you. Nevertheless, in accordance to your wishes, before he could utter more than meaningless greetings, I told him you were already betrothed to a man of your choosing and would marry him as soon as your mourning was over. For good measure, I added that your betrothed was a friend of the late earl and you had fallen for him during your marriage.

Wexford left with a look of thunder on his face. You can be certain we have seen the last of him.

Your loving father.

Oh! Heather almost screamed in relief. This was the best of news! She was finally rid of Wicked Wexford! Of course, by claiming she had been involved with a friend of her late husband even while she was married, her father had painted her as a deceitful wanton, but it was of little consequence. The viscount could think what he wanted of her morals. Now she would never have to meet him.

As to why George would have described his cousin as a decrepit old man, she could imagine all too well. He had meant to torture her, to make her imagine all sorts of horrors. Rereading the letter, she frowned. Her father had found the man young and personable. That was a surprise, and if that was the case, then perhaps a marriage to him might have been bearable. She shook her head. It mattered not what kind of man the viscount was in reality, as she would never be his wife!

Happiness exploded in her chest. She was free!

Clutching the letter to her bosom, she ran to find Will. Her sojourn at Redding Castle was coming to an end. She and Flynn had agreed to meet by the bridge the day before Twelfth Night. She would be able to tell him the road was clear. He would have sorted out his own mess, as he’d called it. In turn she would surprise him by announcing she had got rid of her betrothed. With the awful threat over her head gone, she was now free to start imagining a life with him.

She left the castle with a light heart and reached London in time to join her family for supper. Over a simple meal of bread and cheese, she regaled them with the tale of her whirlwind romance.

The following afternoon she stationed herself by the bridge, in the place she and Flynn had agreed to meet. She lifted her face up to the pale winter sun and started to dream. Would Flynn be wearing his black tunic, she wondered? She loved him in black. Although, of course, she also loved him in blue, in green, and though she had never seen him wear red, she suspected she would love him in that just as well. A giggle escaped her lips. What he wore was of no import. Why, she suspected she would even like him in brown!

But as time passed, she began to worry. Where was he? The sun had started to dip toward the horizon and yet no rider approached her, no passerby called out to her, no messenger came to deliver a letter of apology. When the sun disappeared behind the rows of houses lining the bridge, taking the last bit of warmth with it, the last flicker of hope died within her.

Flynn was not coming.