Rules of Marriage

  A WICKED PURCHASE . . .

  When, at the height of the Peninsular War, she is offered on the auction block by her blackhearted husband, lovely Rachel Brady fears the worst. To her great relief, she is purchased by Lord Jacob Forrester, a rugged English officer whose life she once saved. She becomes Jake’s right hand on the bloody campaign trail . . . and when fiery passion flares, his mistress....

  . . . COSTS A GENTLEMAN HIS HEART

  Back in London, where propriety rules, Jake is faced with the incontestable impropriety of his relationship with Rachel. To save her from the scathing tongues of the gossipy ton, he casts her aside—never dreaming a stunning revelation will foil his plans to reclaim her with a proper offer. Now Jake must vie with viscounts and barons for the hand of a woman he once bought in a tavern . . . and convince a reluctant lady that his love is true ... and truly forever. . . .

  Books by Wilma Counts

  WILLED TO WED

  MY LADY GOVERNESS

  THE WILLFUL MISS WINTHROP

  THE WAGERED WIFE

  THE TROUBLE WITH HARRIET

  MISS RICHARDSON COMES OF AGE

  RULES OF MARRIAGE

  Published by Zebra Books

  RULES OF MARRIAGE

  Wilma Counts

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  A WICKED PURCHASE . . .

  . . . COSTS A GENTLEMAN HIS HEART

  Books by Wilma Counts

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  This book is dedicated to the memory of

  Winifred L. Casterline

  who would “gladly learn and gladly teach”

  and taught me to do so as well

  Prologue

  Northern England, 1808

  “Do you, Rachel Alison Cameron, take Edwin Michael Brady to be your lawful wedded husband . . . ?”

  The minister intoned the rest of the words as Rachel stole a glance at the handsome, dark-haired man standing beside her. Mr. Brady—Edwin—had been so attentive, so charming. Still, a streak of panic coursed through her. Could this be right? Would she be blessed with a marriage as good as her parents’ had been?

  She glimpsed her uncle’s pudgy profile on the other side of Edwin and felt her aunt’s nearness at her own side. The Brocktons were the only family she had, and they wanted this. Had Aunt Jessie not been singing the praises of Mr. Brady—Sergeant Brady—for weeks now? He was so handsome, so charming, so kind. Rachel was such a lucky girl. And on and on.

  Yes, he was certainly all of these things, but somehow she wished they had just had time to know each other more thoroughly. However, Edwin was moving on to a new posting, and her aunt urged that the marriage take place forthwith. Rachel knew very well her aunt and uncle would be glad to rid themselves of a burden they had never welcomed.

  “Miss Cameron?” the minister prompted just as her aunt shoved a sharp elbow in her ribs.

  Rachel jerked her attention back to the clergyman. “Oh. I . . . I . . . do.”

  There. She had done it. It was what she wanted, was it not?

  Aunt Jessie had made all the arrangements for this wedding, urging that a special license be obtained so the marriage could take place in the inn rather than in church and without the three weeks’ wait for reading the banns. Thus she and Edwin stood in the best parlor of The Black Swan to exchange their vows.

  Like most young women, she had long dreamed of marrying and having a family—someday. The dream had always been vague—“when I grow up, I want to be . . .” And now, at seventeen, it seemed she was grown up. So why did she not feel any different? Why was she so wary of the future?

  The minister droned through the last words, the ring was on her finger, and the proper papers were signed.

  “Well!” Her uncle clapped Edwin on the shoulder. “Congratulations, my boy.”

  Aunt Jessie stooped to bestow a kiss on Rachel’s cheek. “I hope you will be happy, child.”

  The gesture and words were the warmest the bride had ever had from her father’s stepsister.

  Rachel knew very well her happiness was not uppermost in her aunt’s mind. Aunt Jessie had made no secret these last three years and more of the imposition she felt at being saddled with her stepbrother’s orphaned daughter. After all, did she not have a daughter of her own nearly the same age?

  “There ain’t no way that great hulking Leah can shine next to Miss Rachel.” Rachel was embarrassed when she overheard one of inn’s grooms say this to a chambermaid.

  “La! An’ don’t you be lettin’ Miz Brockton hear you say such!” the maid had replied. “She fair dotes on her darlin ’.”

  “Yeh. Well. The sooner she gets Miss Rachel outa here, the sooner any o’ the gents is likely to look at ‘her darlin’.”

  The maid had laughed, and the two drifted out of earshot. Rachel brushed a wisp of hair away from her cheek and looked at the middle-aged matron who came in once a week to help with the laundry. The two worked together on a near-freezing February morning.

  “Joey’s right, you know,” Mrs. North said in a very matter-of-fact voice.

  Rachel felt herself blushing. She held up hands raw from wringing sheets in cold water in the unheated laundry shed and indicated her faded and worn dress and scuffed shoes.

  “Even if he were, I doubt I present a picture to attract a man worth having.” Rachel truly believed what she was saying. “Leah is a larger person than I, but she has lovely clear skin and blond hair. She is quite handsome, I think.”

  Mrs. North sniffed. “And spoiled rotten by her mum. You wait. You’ll do with your dark hair and big eyes.”

  Rachel never knew exactly why, but soon after this, her aunt decided to change her duties. Instead of laundry, kitchen, and housekeeping chores, Rachel was to wait on customers in the taproom. Moreover, she was to have a more attractive outfit to wear and tie her hair up with a pretty ribbon. She, her aunt, and Cousin Leah were in the room the two girls shared when the new clothing was presented.

  “Is it not . . . uh ... cut daringly low in front?” Rachel asked hesitantly, feeling very bold in questioning her aunt.

  “Try not to be such a ninnyhammer,” Aunt Jessie said, jerking the neckline on the bodice lower and tightening the midriff laces to push the girl’s breasts higher. “Men like to see what they might be getting.”

  “But I do not—”Rachel began.

  Aunt Jessie interrupted. “No argument from you now—you hear? How else do you think you’ll find a husband? For all your airs, you are not some gentry lady with a dowry and all. And you cannot expect to be boarded and coddled here forever.”

  Rachel swallowed her anger. She knew very well that she earned her keep here. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed the two girls shared, Leah folded her arms across her chest and pushed out her lower lip in a pout. “I don’t s
ee why you are so worried about finding her a husband. What about me? I’m your daughter. And you’re doing this—giving her new clothes—just when those nice looking soldiers have come, too!”

  Aunt Jessie turned immediately to soothing her daughter’s ruffled feathers. She put her arm around Leah’s shoulders. “There, there, pumpkin. Your day will come. And we’ll find you some nice local boy.”

  “But, Mama! That Sergeant Brady looks so handsome in his regimentals,” Leah wailed.

  “Yes, he does.” Aunt Jessie caressed Leah’s cheek. “But he’s not for you, sweeting. I’ll not have my baby carried off to God knows where.”

  Rachel jerked herself back to the present, her wedding day, as Uncle Phillip poured wine and passed it around.

  “A toast to my bride.” Edwin Brady’s blue eyes locked with her gaze. He slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her close, and gave her a quick kiss.

  This erased—at least for the moment—some of her trepidation. She felt the familiar warmth of his embrace and knew everything would turn out fine. How could it not? Had Edwin not assured her repeatedly of his love, even before the subject of marriage had come up? And so what if the subject had, in fact, come up only after she adamantly refused to allow him liberties beyond a few chaste kisses?

  Her uncle beamed expansively and her aunt smiled triumphantly as the party drank the toasts.

  “ ’Tis nearly noon, my love.” Her new husband’s open endearment brought a blush to Rachel’s face. “If we are to reach our next posting by nightfall, we must be off.”

  He shook hands with her uncle and the minister and bowed graciously to her aunt and to Leah. She saw Leah blush as Edwin deliberately winked at her.

  Now that the moment of parting had come, panic threatened to engulf Rachel. Here she was, going off with a stranger, leaving the comfort of the known for the doubt of the unknown. She remembered this feeling well, for it had been the same when, following her father’s death, she had been sent here three years ago.

  She gave herself a mental shake. There was no longer a place for her at The Black Swan. That had been clear for some time. Now she embarked on a new life with a man of easy laughter and engaging manners. They would face any obstacles together and their love would be both their strength and their reward.

  Brady handed his new bride into the hired coach and climbed in himself to sit next to her. God! The chit was a beauty! Dark brown hair. Big hazel eyes. And she was all his. Could he even wait until they reached their destination to take her? But he had better force himself to do so. After all, the girl was a virgin—he was sure of that. Her kisses were not those of a woman of any experience.

  He sighed at the thought of what it had taken to get her into his bed. Marriage. Then he smiled at the tacit conspiracy that had achieved this end. Her aunt and uncle had been so anxious to be rid of her that they had even parted with the blunt to pay for a special license.

  He laughed inwardly as he recalled Mrs. Brockton’s machinations in throwing Rachel in his path at every turn—like the time she had sent Rachel to the root cellar, knowing full well Brady would be waiting outside. That was the first time he had kissed her.

  He remembered her trembling eagerness in his arms. Even now the thought of her latent passion was stirring his own physical reaction. He put his arm around her and pulled her close, using his other hand to lift her face to his. He saw a flash of apprehension in her eyes.

  “Everything will be fine, my love. You’ll see.” He kissed her, allowing his lips to linger on hers. When he felt her response, he deepened the kiss, probing, exploring. Hesitant at first, she then acceded to his silent urgings.

  Ah, yes, this would be a fine bedding indeed.

  One

  Spain, April 1812

  Rachel awoke with a start. Uncertain what had jerked her out of a fitful slumber, she lay listening for a moment. Quiet. It was too quiet. Artillery that had boomed incessantly for hours now—and intermittently for a fortnight—had ceased its agonizing howls.

  Was it over?

  Had the allies succeeded in taking Badajoz?

  She rose to her knees on her bed—a pallet she had laid atop a layer of straw on a dirt floor in an abandoned sheepherder’s hut. She drew back the fragment of canvas covering the single window.

  Dawn.

  Well, almost dawn anyway. The rosy fingers of dawn, as Homer had described it in an account of another war in another time and another place.

  She shook her head as though to dismiss that fanciful thought and listened again for the sounds of war. With the big guns silent, only an occasional rifle shot announced that sporadic hostilities continued. There was a faint glow of fire in the direction of the city, but it did not appear to be a huge conflagration.

  Fully awake now, she reached for her shoes, sturdy half boots that served her well. Following the drum with Lord Wellington’s army was very hard on shoe leather. She stirred the fire in the stone fireplace, added a few pieces of precious fuel, and set the kettle to heat water for tea.

  She heard a rustling in the loft above and a babe’s whimpering. The Bradys shared these elegant quarters with another soldier and his wife and child, and considered themselves inordinately lucky not to be out in the elements, as were most others of ranks below officer status. It had been raining rather steadily ever since the siege had started on St. Patrick’s Day.

  “They ain’t back yet?” Clara Paxton asked needlessly as she climbed down from the loft with her son astraddle one hip.

  “No. I think it will be some time yet before we know anything.”

  “At least the cannon stopped. My Joe, he hates artillery—theirs, anyway.” Clara sighed and added, “I don’t suppose the supplies have come in, either. We’re about outa food. How about you?” She set the toddler on his feet. He immediately plopped himself on his little bottom and began to yowl.

  Rachel handed the fussy child a crust of stale, dry bread. “Not much left. A bit of cheese and some bread—and it has gone to mold. Maybe enough tea to color the water.”

  “At least it’ll be hot.” Clara offered her own remaining tea to add to the kettle.

  The two couples had become acquainted when the Bradys, as part of replacement forces, had joined the 51st Foot some eight months earlier. They were of an age, and the women had gravitated toward each other. This was not the first time they had shared makeshift quarters and limited supplies.

  “I’ll see if I can find some vegetables or something when I go out,” Rachel said. “No telling when the supplies will arrive.”

  “I heard they was havin’ trouble with the bridge.”

  “I heard that, too. Storm damaged several boats. Too bad the French destroyed the old stone bridge.” Rachel had watched some weeks ago as British engineers fashioned a pontoon bridge of planks laid across boats in the river. Ingenious—but not up to all that Mother Nature threw in the way. “Sometimes I truly believe the elements themselves favor the French,” she muttered as she poured two steaming mugs of the brew.

  They sat in companionable silence on stools at a rickety table that comprised the room’s only furniture.

  Clara gripped her mug in both hands to warm them. Her clear blue eyes took on a dreamy look. “Wouldn’t a real English breakfast of bacon and eggs and porridge go wonderful ’bout now?”

  “Don’t torture yourself.” Rachel finished her tea and stood.

  “You going back to the hospital already? It was late when I heard you come in.”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t. I never sleep well when Joe’s gone like this.”

  “Oh.” Rachel swallowed the last of her tea. “Well, I am going now. Mac sent me home to get some sleep. He thinks we will be very busy today.”

  “I just hope you don’t find my Joe—or Mr. Brady—among your patients,” Clara worried aloud.

  Rachel put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I do, too.”

  She pulled her shawl over her head and stepped out
into the still, damp air. She picked her way carefully to the hospital which, in this instance, was a convent outside the city walls. Because the convent had been raided repeatedly by the French and the Spanish who sided with Napoleon, there were but a few nuns in residence.

  She was grateful that MacLachlan, the regiment’s chief medical officer, had insisted she return to her own quarters for some much needed rest. This was sure to be a very long, very distressing day. With only the first of the wounded having arrived the evening before, it had already been apparent that allied casualties would be horrendous. She had heard two of the surgeons talking with a colonel whose broken arm they had set and bandaged. Quietly going about her business of tidying the dressing station, Rachel had listened unashamedly to their exchange.

  “The order to storm the city came in something of a hurry, didn’t it?” asked Lieutenant Ferguson. “I mean, after all, you’ve been digging trenches and putting armaments in place for two weeks. Suddenly, tonight . . .”

  “Well, as I understand it, his lordship received word the French were sending reinforcements from Seville. It was vital that we take the fortress before they arrive.”

  “Frogs forced the Peer’s hand, eh? ” asked MacLachlan.

  The colonel nodded. “A night attack—and in this miserable damned weather, too. Not to mention being short on supplies and decent equipment. None of these factors helped our cause. Still, our lads pushed on.” The colonel ended on a note of pride.

  “Our first casualties have been in rather bad straits,” Ferguson said with what Rachel knew to be characteristic understatement.

  The injured man ran a hand across his eyes as though to erase an unwelcome vision. “The forlorn hope,” he said. “They were magnificent! The first waves were beaten back and the next ones had to trample over fallen comrades to press on.”