The Other Bride. Lisa Bingham
School for Girls. Only at Christmas-time was she permitted to return home—a fact that had been more of a burden than a delight. For seven days, she was dressed in clothes and jewelry chosen by her father to impress whatever business associates had been invited to Haversham Hall. She was expected to keep to herself, refrain from speaking, and appear suitably grateful for the scraps of attention he threw her way. Then, as soon as the New Year dawned, she was hustled back to Goodfellow’s posthaste.
So why was her father here now?
Hearing the distant sound of voices, Louisa froze. Could she dare to hope that she was about to leave Goodfellow’s School for Girls and return home for good? Or was her father on his deathbed? Was he frantic about the inevitable disbursement of his title and the bulk of his business empire passing to a distant male cousin rather than a son?
Louisa wove her fingers tightly together to still a burst of trembling. Her panic grew so intense it nearly choked her. Damn her father for his meddling, for his hard-heartedness. But most of all, damn him for his inability to love her for something she could not change—being a female. If she ever managed to get free of his clutches, she would never allow another human being to have such control over her.
Especially not a man.
Louisa was but a few feet away from the chapel when the door suddenly swung wide, revealing the sour face of Mr. Goodfellow.
“In here, child,” he said curtly, clearly holding his tongue to avoid criticizing her in the presence of her father.
Moving on quaking limbs, Louisa crossed the threshold. In an instant, she took in the tall figure of the local magistrate, her dour cousin Rodney, her father in his rolling chair, and an unknown woman in black, her face obscured by a mourning veil.
Louisa’s heart thumped in her breast.
What was happening? Why had her father come to Goodfellow’s—and why had he brought Cousin Rodney and another woman with him?
As if sensing her thoughts, her father, the eleventh Marquis of Dobbenshire, spoke. “You’re to be married by proxy,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and quavering like a man of eighty rather than his mere fifty years. “Your husband-to-be, Charles Winslow III, is a business associate of mine in Boston. He was unable to make the crossing—” Haversham paused, struggling for breath “—so he sent word…that you were to be married anyway, with Rodney standing in as the groom.” Again he paused, and the pallor of his skin alarmed even Louisa. “At the end of the week, you will board a ship for America. Once there…you’ll have a proper church wedding.”
Married?
By proxy?
Ice began to seep into her muscles. Her mind worked frantically, trying to grasp the meaning of her father’s pronouncement. But with each inescapable tick of the clock, she was able to grasp only one fact.
Her father was a brilliant man. The last time she had seen him, he’d railed at the fact that his wealth, power and title were to be passed on to an “ungrateful cousin” rather than his own flesh and blood.
But by selling his daughter to the highest bidder—and she had no doubts that was exactly what he had done—he could pray that he would soon be supplied with the heir he craved.
A grandson.
Louisa opened her mouth to protest, but all sound choked in her throat before it could even be uttered. It was clear from the jut of her father’s chin that this marriage would occur, one way or another.
Run! an inner voice urged.
But where would she go? How could she ever hope to escape? She was totally at her father’s mercy. She had no money of her own and no references that could lead to employment. Furthermore, at the first hint of disobedience, her father would see to it that she was locked up—either here at school or a convent. If she managed to elude him, his money and power would provide the means for her to be found.
Hope faded like smoke rising from a snuffed candle. She would not escape this marriage. She would exchange her prison here for one in America, with a stranger of a husband as her keeper.
Her father made a brusque gesture toward Rodney and the magistrate. “Let’s get this…over with.”
Numbly, Louisa took her place. In a daze, she heard the magistrate speak.
“Dearly beloved…”
Was there no way out of this? None at all?
But as she scrambled to find a way to derail her father’s machinations, her only solace lay in the fact that this marriage by proxy would offer her time.
Time for what? Another solution? And what would that be?
Your new husband won’t have seen you, her inner voice whispered again. Someone could take your place.
The thought was so sudden, so startling, that Louisa jerked.
Rodney, who had been asked to take her hand, took the movement for an attempt to pull back, and tightened his grip until her bones felt as if they would crack.
Could she do it? Could she find someone who would be willing to marry a stranger and assume her identity in exchange for…
For what?
Her inheritance. Her title.
But who would that woman be? Who would be willing to submit to a loveless marriage? Worse yet, Louisa would have to find someone who had a passing likeness to her in case her father had described her in his correspondence.
“Louisa!”
“Yes?” The word was spoken before Louisa knew what she’d done. Too late, she realized she’d been asked if she would “take Charles Winslow as her husband.”
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Louisa’s thoughts suddenly scattered. Shocked, she realized that the ceremony was over and she had barely heard a single word.
“Sign the papers, Louisa,” her father panted. “I want to get out of this…dank air before it finishes me. Then I’m off for an…extended stay in Italy to improve my health.”
It was the magistrate who said to Louisa, “I hope you will be happy, Mrs. Winslow.”
Winslow. Louisa Haversham Winslow.
The magistrate took her hand. “Don’t worry, dear,” the man said with a reassuring pat. “I know a woman of your background balks at the informality of a civil ceremony. But as your father has said, once you’re reunited with your husband, you’ll have a church wedding with all the trimmings.”
Reunited? So the magistrate had been led to believe that she had met Charles Winslow.
“Sign the papers, Louisa.”
Moving on wooden legs, Louisa crossed to a side table set with a sheaf of documents, an inkwell and a pen.
Dear God, help me. Help me to find a way out of this. Help me to find someone who might be willing to take my place.
When she’d finished, her father eyed her with disdain. Clearly, he still wished she’d been a boy.
He held out an imperious hand to his valet. Immediately, the servant crossed to Louisa, handing her a hinged, wooden box. She opened it and gasped, recognizing several pieces of her mother’s jewelry as well as a heavy signet ring with the family coat of arms.
She gasped. The gift was so unexpected. Her mother’s jewelry!
“Father, I don’t know what to—”
He cut her off.
“I won’t have you besmirching the family name with an absence of jewels. I’ve only provided you with a few items of lesser value. The rest will be given to you or your heirs upon my death.” He paused. “If I feel you deserve them. I’ve provided you with a good husband, Louisa. Be grateful.”
She clamped