Marriage with a Proper Stranger. Karyn GerrardЧитать онлайн книгу.
her from the curse.”
Riordan did not like the sounds of this. He and Aidan exchanged worried looks.
“I met Moira in Edinburgh, about twelve years after your grandmother died. She was the epitome of a bonnie lass, with her fiery red hair and passionate nature. Does your father ever speak of her?”
Riordan nodded. “He said he remembered her always smiling.”
“She embraced this family. Became a mother to Julian. Always had a song in her heart. When Garrett was born, my happiness was complete. I didn’t give a hang what society thought about my choice of bride. For once in my life, I was content and in love. At peace.” A lone tear trickled down his cheek. “But it was not to be,” he whispered. “I wish you could have known her. She died when Garrett was five years of age. The year before you lads were born.”
“I thought the curse was broken if a Wollstonecraft man found true love?” Aidan asked. It was the first Riordan had heard of this. How did Aidan know about it?
Their grandfather barked out a cynical laugh. “Apparently not, for what I had with Moira was all that and more. Your father thought he’d found it. Yet here our wives lie, taken from us far too young. The doctor claims Moira died of a cancer that lay dormant for years, long before we met. Who is to know what to believe?” He shook his head.
“I dismissed the curse and refused to allow it to rule my life. Your Uncle Garrett needed a mother. Three years later, I remarried. A complete miscalculation, as we were not compatible. Yet I managed to get her with child the three or four times I visited her cold bed.”
Riordan was not used to such frank talk from his grandfather, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A wave of apprehension rolled through him.
“She died giving birth to a girl, who died three weeks later. They are buried together there.” He pointed to a small stone farther along the row. “Heed me, lads. The proof is before you. Ultimately, it will be your decision to involve yourself with a young woman when you’re older, but you would be better off guarding your heart. Let no female close, for it will end in tragedy. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” they answered in unison.
All at once, the dead-leafed trees appeared to be skeletal and more terrifying. Riordan couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through him. A terrible sense of foreboding took hold. Death, tragedy. All of this took place before he was born, or he was too young to have it impact him. But it did now. His family was cursed. He was cursed. He would not forget this day.
Not ever.
Chapter 1
Wollstonecraft Hall, Kent
August 1844
Growing up in an ancient, medieval hall filled with powerful men had not been without its issues, especially when tragedy and loss hung over the place like a heavy, melancholy mist on the moors. Today, however, Riordan was ready to embark on a new chapter of his young life.
Since sleep had been sporadic the previous night, he arrived in the dining room for breakfast and the first-Monday-of-the-month family meeting before the rest of his family. Rubbing his hands together to elicit a little warmth as he entered the room, the enticing aromas of bacon, ham, and coffee filled his senses. Murmuring “good morning” to the phalanx of footmen standing by, Riordan lifted the covers of the silver chafing dishes and commenced loading his plate with food.
Martin, the butler, already well-versed in Riordan’s beverage preference, prepared his tea the way he liked it, with two teaspoons of sugar and the milk added first. He set the cup and saucer on the table next to Riordan. “Cook made cinnamon scones, sir. Would you care for one? I know how you enjoy them.”
“After I tackle this rasher of bacon, I will. Thank you, Martin.” Popping a forkful of curried eggs in his mouth, he nodded to his father, Julian Wollstonecraft, Viscount Tensbridge, as he strode into the room. All the Wollstonecraft men were tall and dark-haired, save his Uncle Garrett, his father’s thirty-two-year-old half brother. At the age of forty-five, his father had threads of gray at his temples but was often mistaken for someone younger. His detached, distinguished air bespoke of their venerated lineage.
“Already tucking in, I see.” His father gave him an amused smile as he took his seat, content to allow Martin to serve him.
“I’m blasted hungry this morning. Perhaps it is the change in temperature,” Riordan said between bites.
“Coffee this morning, my lord?” Martin asked.
“Yes. Coffee it is. And ham instead of bacon.” Julian snapped open the linen napkin and laid it on his lap. “Riordan, where is your older brother?”
Older by fifteen minutes, Aidan was the heir apparent and Riordan was fine with it. His paternal twin had stumbled in at three in the morning; he couldn’t help but hear his brother’s cursing and bumping into furniture from across the hall. “Still asleep, I believe.”
His father sighed. “Martin, send one of the footmen to rouse my slugabed son.”
“At once, my lord.” The butler inclined his head toward one of the footmen, who exited the dining area.
Garrett walked into the room dressed as if he had come straight from the barn, which he had, seeing he spent all his time with horses. His uncle had inherited his red hair, pale skin, and freckles from his Scottish mother. Close to six and a half feet in height, his barrel chest and massive shoulders were a stark contrast to the leaner musculature of the rest of the men. Much like a medieval Highlander, Riordan mused.
“Before you ask, brother, I wiped my muddy boots,” Garrett said as he moved to the sideboard. His uncle managed to pile more food on his plate than Riordan had. Sitting across the table, Garrett immediately started to eat as the footmen brought toast and poured his tea.
“How’s Starlight doing?” Julian asked while cutting his ham into meticulous bite-sized pieces.
“She hasn’t foaled yet,” Garrett replied. “Going to be a long siege, I imagine. The stable lads are keeping watch and will inform me if there are any developments.”
Aidan happened into the room with a short, unsteady gait, looking the worse for wear. He plopped down next to Garrett. “Coffee, Martin, and lots of it. Bring me nothing else or I shall puke, for certain.”
Julian curled his lip in obvious distaste. “Out gambling and whoring again? Best not let your grandfather see the state of you. Sit up straight.” Aidan sneered, but did as he was told. “Martin, bring the heir toast and cheese. You will eat and get that insolent expression off your face. Look at the state of you, unkempt, eyes bloodshot. We will be speaking about this at great length after the meeting concludes.”
Riordan did not envy his brother. He’s in the soup now. But when had he not been with their father? It was as if Aidan acted in such a way to rile him on purpose.
As always, Oliver Wollstonecraft entered last. Tall and regal, his grandfather defied Father Time, standing as straight and tall as his sons and grandsons. He was a sterling example of exemplary hereditary vim and vigor and amazing good health. Riordan’s great-grandfather, the old earl, passed away five years ago, and he’d remained a striking figure well into his eighties. Of all the maladies to cause death, it was a winter chill that took him.
“Ah, all here. Excellent.” The earl took his seat at the head of the table while Martin and the footmen laid tea, coffee, and various food items in front of him—and Aidan, who turned a sickening shade of green at the sight of it. Riordan smirked. Having his brother cast up his accounts would certainly add drama to the gathering.
Attendance was mandatory at these family meetings. The earl would brook no argument or accept any excuses for not being present. What was discussed at these compulsory summits? Ways to further the family’s progressive agenda. Though distantly related to Mary Wollstonecraft, the late-eighteenth-century scholar, philosopher, and advocate of women’s rights, and to her daughter, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, essayist