The Plain Bride by Chasity Bowlin
Prologue
1814
Sinclair Wortham,Lord Mayville, entered the library that was his father’s sanctuary and sank down onto the chair that faced the desk. It was habit, he supposed, to sit on that side of the desk. He couldn’t bring himself to take his father’s seat. It wasn’t respect; it wasn’t even grief. Lingering disgust would be a better description.
In the days since his father’s untimely death, so many horrific things had come to light that he couldn’t quite take them all in. Everything he'd thought he knew about their family, about their history, had been a lie. His father and his grandfather before him had been monsters. Traitors. Men who had traded their loyalty to king and country to the highest bidder. Their fortunes, the palatial homes and estates that had been passed through generations, had been paid for with the blood and grief of countless English families. How many people had died, how many people had grieved, as a result of their misdeeds? His own brother had died because of it. Recalling how his father had protested when Samuel had insisted on joining the army, it now made perfect sense.
He couldn’t bear it.
Angrily, he rose and swept everything from the top of the desk, sending all the various and sundry items crashing to the floor. Ink spilled over the carpet, the black stain spreading. It was a perfect metaphor for his father’s life: a black stain that had spread out to encompass everything and everyone in his path. The destruction was oddly cathartic.
Moments later, the butler came knocking. “My lord, is aught amiss?”
Taking a deep and calming breath, Sinclair answered firmly, “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”
The butler opened the door, taking in the mess. “It is not fine, my lord. I’ve a note for you from Miss Hill. It was delivered by a messenger just moments ago. There is some urgency, I think.”
Sinclair held out his hand for the note and then waved the butler away. He didn’t read the note right away. He knew what it would say. He knew that within would be an apology, an assurance that she would always love him, and excuses that she had to marry as her family directed her to. But in the end, it would simply be a reiteration of the rejection she’d already presented him. The woman he loved was to marry another. And, in truth, he was content enough to let her do so. How could he marry her with the truth of his family’s perfidy now hanging over his head?
Opening the note, he read the words penned so neatly.
My darling,
I beg you to forgive me. If it were but my choice to marry for love rather than wed in the direction of my family’s choosing, it would always be you. But, alas, I cannot. I am not free to love you as you deserve, but I am too selfish to let you go entirely. I pray you not forsake me, to hold me forever in your heart as I shall hold you in mine.
Whomever I may marry, know that in my heart you will always reside. I shall never not need you. I shall never not love you. And if freedom should find me, my first thought will be how quickly I may come to you.
Your love,
Charlotte
They werehollow and empty words. Because while he might love her, he knew her to be a liar.
“The carpet, my lord. If we do not clean it now, it will be ruined,” the butler insisted.
Sinclair spared a glance for the still-spreading stain. “Let it. Let the whole damnable place fall to ruin.”
