Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7) Read online

  Always the Rival

  Never the Bride

  Book 7

  Emily E K Murdoch

  © Copyright 2020 by Emily E K Murdoch

  Text by Emily E K Murdoch

  Cover by Dar Albert

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition October 2020

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

  Happy Reading!

  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch

  Never The Bride Series

  Always the Bridesmaid (Book 1)

  Always the Chaperone (Book 2)

  Always the Courtesan (Book 3)

  Always the Best Friend (Book 4)

  Always the Wallflower (Book 5)

  Always the Bluestocking (Book 6)

  Always the Rival (Book 7)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  About Emily E K Murdoch

  Chapter One

  No matter what he did, it was impossible for Charles Audley, Duke of Orrinshire, to tug his cravat into a comfortable position.

  Noise, laughter, and movement swirled around him as he attempted to loosen the necktie, but it was impossible. His valet, Bridges, had done an excellent job of preparing him for the wedding. Now he would have to live with it.

  His dark eyes looked past the graceful dancers in the center of the room and wished he had not made that promise to Patrick. How could he have known the man’s wedding would be so dull?

  Laughter erupted from one end of the room as a joke came to a conclusion, and several young ladies passed him in a giggling gaggle. Perhaps it was only he who was finding it dull.

  “…are you listening, Charles? I do believe you are not listening to a single word I am saying!”

  Charles sighed and turned his attention back to his mother. “I am listening, Mama.”

  The Dowager Duchess of Orrinshire, Lady Audley, glared fiercely at her son, evidently searching for a sliver of disrespect in his tone, but had to grudgingly continue, “Well. Good. What I was saying before I was forced to ascertain your attention, was that the number of couples here are far too large. For your own wedding, Charles, we must have fewer. Hardly anyone has greeted you with the proper deference you deserve!”

  Deference. Was that all his mother truly worried about? Charles tried to smile at his mother, her eyes still as clear and direct as they had been when he was a child.

  Nothing got past her. He should have known not to bring her.

  “I am hardly the most senior person here, Mama,” he said aloud, trying to seek a way out of the conversation that did not lead to a telling-off like he was six years old, and not almost six and twenty. “Being a duke, alas, is not a guarantee of servility, and neither should it be.”

  But his latter words were ignored.

  “Not the most senior person here? I would like to see anyone with more nobility in their veins!” sniffed the dowager. “Come now, even the Duke of Axwick has not stayed long, a marked sign of offence to the poor…viscount, did you say?”

  Charles smiled. Despite all his mother’s prickles, he knew it came from a place of fear, and for that, he could never truly despise her. Born a mere viscount’s daughter, she had married well and sought to leave her past behind her.

  “Yes,” he said gently. “Patrick O’Leary, Viscount Donal. There he is, with his bride.”

  The dowager followed her son’s nod and sniffed again. “A very pretty girl, I dare say, but must she wear those spectacles? They ruin a face, my boy, and someone should tell her. Now Frances, of course, has a natural beauty unimpaired by any…”

  It was impossible to hold his attention, and his mother had moved to the one topic of conversation that he simply could not abide.

  “…and I think their idea to serve ices an excellent one, we must add that to your wedding plans – but the punch! Simply not to be borne, the quality is disgraceful. I thought in church that…”

  The words washed over him, but like a great boulder, Charles was unmoved.

  A month. He would be wed in a month. Four short weeks of freedom – and they would be freedom compared to what awaited him – and then he would be shackled for the rest of his days to Miss Frances Lloyd.

  Charles shifted his feet and allowed his gaze to wander around the room. So many couples, something he had never noticed before his own engagement. Now he could not stop seeing them. The whole world seemed to be arranged in pairs, and his own arranged marriage would force him into the same pattern.

  “I did not like the roast beef,” his mother was saying quietly, “such a heavy food to serve at a wedding. At yours, we will choose…”

  Arranged marriage…it was barbaric! Charles’s jaw clenched as he recalled the debate with his mother about it six months ago. But arranged marriages were what the Orrinshires did – had done, for hundreds of years. This was not something he could escape.

  His gaze caught a glimpse of almost white-blonde hair, and he quickly looked at his b
oots. He did not know whether it was Miss Lloyd, but her distinctive hair was rare, even in the north where his primary seat was held. Down near London, it was rarer still.

  Heat rushed through his body as Charles berated himself silently. What difference did it make it he saw Miss Lloyd at old Donal’s wedding? She was pretty enough, interesting enough to hold a conversation for more than two minutes.

  At least, he was almost sure she could. Along with the Orrinshire traditions of mothers choosing brides for their sons was the expectation that the two lovebirds – and Charles could not help a sarcastic sigh at this thought – would barely speak with each other.

  It was all Miss Ashbrooke’s doing. That matchmaker had worked even quicker than he had thought possible, and before he knew it, he was engaged.

  “The favors were simply delightful. We shall have to find out where the Wynns found such elegant wrappings.”

  Because most importantly, Miss Lloyd was wealthy. Charles felt his hands ball into fists and forced himself to relax them. This was not the place to allow his thoughts to overwhelm him. He was at a wedding. Most weddings were supposed to be joyful occasions.

  “ – and I think,” the dowager’s voice moved to a whisper, finally catching her son’s attention, “we should not permit so many bluestockings to come in. Look at them. They are everywhere!”

  She nodded meaningfully to a group of ladies just to their left. Charles looked over his mother’s shoulder at some of the ladies Mariah Wynn – Mariah O’Leary, Viscountess Donal now, of course – had been introduced to him at her graduation.

  Shame rushed through his bones. His mother was so…well, old fashioned.

  “Mama,” he said quietly, dropping his voice so none around could hear. “I have been introduced to several of those ladies, each of them charming, intelligent, and well worth knowing.”

  The dowager stared with unabashed surprise. “Really? Do you think it worth my time attempting an acquaintance with any of them or their mothers?”

  Charles’s stomach clenched at the way his mother stared, but the heat of his discomfort only increased by the very sure knowledge that a month ago, he would have thought and acted in the same way. Mariah had taught him a huge amount in a short time, but that did not erase the errors of his past.

  “Mama,” he said gently, “bluestockings may not dress to our tastes, but many of them are well-born, well-bred, and well-spoken. Those who are not, have immense intelligence and wit, and I do believe will one day contribute as much to society as…well as we do.”

  It was all he could do to stifle a laugh. Orrinshires, contributes to society? No, his ancestors had prided themselves on surviving. Always an Orrinshire lad to take on the name, always heaps of servants to do his bidding, and an arranged marriage every twenty years or so kept it all going.

  Charles worked hard to keep the bitterness from his features. His mother had his best interests at heart, that was certain, even if they fundamentally disagreed on what those were.

  “Hmm,” said Lady Audley, casting another intrigued look at the bluestockings, who Charles could see were recommending books to each other at an almost unbelievable speed. “Well, whatever you say, Charles. I did not approve of the church service, naturally – Latin! I had no idea the viscount was a…a Catholic.”

  Charles’s patience with his mother was not infinite. “He is Irish, Mama. What did you expect?”

  The dowager glared, searching for a hint of cheek, but unable to find any, she continued, “Well, I do not think we need to concern ourselves with that, at any rate. The Lloyds are an excellent Protestant family, and so I think the readings should be…”

  Her words became part of the background hubbub as Charles looked up and saw them. The happy couple. Mariah and Patrick were standing at one side of the room, utterly oblivious to the chaos occurring around them, eyes only for each other.

  Something bitter twisted his mouth. Envy was a very uncouth emotion, and one that should have been bred out of him by now. An Orrinshire, envious of another gentleman?

  But he was a little envious. There they were together, without any family involvement forcing their way toward a match. Well, almost no family involvement. Charles had only met Edward Wynn once or twice, but he seemed a nice fellow.

  Mariah said something Charles could not catch, but he could see Patrick laugh, his hand entwined with hers.

  To think, a month ago they did not know each other. Now Mariah was Viscountess Donal, and they would go back to Ireland. A whirlwind romance.

  Charles’s jaw set once again. There would be no whirlwind romance for him. If he was going to retain the family honor, do what was expected of him, and continue the family line, he needed to marry money. His mother had made that perfectly clear, and Miss Lloyd had been the first to accept him. She would be his bride, and that was an end to it.

  “The sleeves I thought were most elegant, the stitching very refined,” the dowager was saying. “I believe Miss Lloyd should take note of that. Remind me, Charles, to mention it to Mrs. Lloyd when we next –”

  “Mother,” Charles said firmly, keeping his voice low. This had gone on long enough. “Excited as you undoubtedly are for my marriage with Miss Frances Lloyd, do you not think it possible that she will want to choose her own gown?”

  Was that a hint of embarrassment on his mother’s cheeks?

  “Well, of course,” she said quietly. “’Tis only a suggestion, Charles, you do take on so.”

  Regret, never far away when he spoke with his mother for any length of time, flooded into his veins. Of all her suggestions, did he have to criticize that one?

  “I apologize, Mama,” he said. “I know you would have greatly enjoyed helping Mary to plan her own wedding.”

  The pain on her features were mirrored in his own heart. How had it been more than ten years since his sister had died? The pain had dulled, but her absence was still keenly felt by them both.

  The dowager swallowed, but did not appear to be able to speak. Charles reached out and took her hand. She loved him, fiercely, like a lioness loved her cub. Was it her fault if she did not know what his heart truly longed for?

  “I miss her.” Her words were slightly strangled, and she squeezed his hand before dropping it and coughing.

  Charles sighed heavily. Perhaps if Mary had lived, the pressure of the Orrinshire name and the wedding would not have been thrust so heavily upon his shoulders.

  If he were not a duke, he could have chosen his own destiny, with none of the family responsibilities that plagued him.

  His mother coughed again. “But while I miss my daughter, I have a wonderful son, one who will be wed within a month!”

  “Have you considered I may not wish to marry?”

  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He looked at his mother, waiting for her refined anger – never adequately expressed in public, because they were a well-bred family and would not squabble before strangers. The wrinkling of her nose, the sniff before she spoke, the lofty language…

  She laughed. “Not marry? My dear boy, what a joke. You are an Orrinshire!”

  Charles forced himself to laugh. Anything to hide the mistake he had made in expressing his actual opinion.

  “Orrinshires have depended on arranged marriages for generations,” she continued as a footman paused to offer them glasses of wine. “Each generation, fresh blood to better the family. You will do what is expected of you, and you will continue the family line.”

  Despite himself, a rebellious streak rose in his heart, and Charles murmured, “And bring in a little fresh gold.”

  “Charles!” Now she was glaring as only a mother could. “Not in public!”

  Her hiss barely carried to his own ears, but the fading rebellious streak made him say, “No one is listening.”

  “And no one will,” she barked in a most unladylike way. Her fan snapped open, and she fanned herself with a smile, in case anyone was attending to them.

  But as Charles
could see, everyone had much more important things to do than watch a mother and son bicker at the side of dancing at a wedding.

  He sighed and wondered whether he could excuse himself and find some of his acquaintances. None of them had well-meaning mothers constantly nagging them, maneuvering them into alliances for a few more thousand in the family bank.

  That thought was immediately followed by shame. No, his friends did not, but many of them would bite off his arm to have such a mother. Many of them would do anything to have their mothers still living.

  Guilt washed through him, and his shoulders slumped. What was wrong with him?

  “Oh, there she is!”

  Charles attempted to plaster a smile across his face for Miss Lloyd – but it was not her who was approaching in a pale cream gown. It was Priscilla Seton.

  His false smile was immediately replaced with a natural one. Priscilla, one of his oldest friends. The three of them against the world, that is how they had grown up. Even after they had lost Mary, it had been Priscilla who had steadied him, kept him focused on caring for his parents.

  She was smiling as she curtseyed low to his mother. “Your Grace.”

  The dowager nodded stiffly. “Miss Seton. How lovely to see you.”

  Charles glanced at his mother. This was not the typical welcome Priscilla received, and he could see the surprise on her face – but she was ever gracious toward the older lady.

  “And you, Your Grace. You look very well, if I may say so.”

  His mother smiled. “You may. And you must excuse me, Miss Seton, for I have just spotted my old friend Lady Romeril, and I must speak with her. Charles, we leave in an hour.”

  She swept away in a gown heavy with lace, and Charles felt his shoulders slump. “You must forgive my mother.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, you know that,” Priscilla said easily, moving to his side. “Far be it from me to dictate how a dowager duchess should speak to me, a young lady of no rank.”

  Charles laughed. “No rank? Goodness, yes, no title. You know, sometimes I forget that! You have been so much a part of my life. At the wedding, you must…”