Rule's Bride. Kat Martin

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      The thought had him excusing himself and heading for the liquor table for something stronger than champagne.

      Luke caught up with him there. “The crowd is beginning to thin. How about we head over to the club? Or we could go to Crockfords, do a little gambling.” Luke was nearly as tall as Rule, with dark brown hair and keen brown eyes. He had a scar through his right eyebrow that gave him a rakish, dangerous appearance women seemed to find attractive.

      “Or if you are up to it, we could stop by Madame Lafon’s.” Luke grinned lasciviously at the pun, but Rule shook his head.

      There was a time the elegant bordello had been one of his favorite ways to spend an evening. Lately, the notion of bedding one of the house’s beautiful harlots held little appeal.

      “How about Crockfords?” he said. “I’ve been on a bit of a lucky streak lately. Perhaps it will hold.”

      Luke smiled. “Crockfords it is.”

      The one thing Rule wasn’t ready to do was go home. If he did, his conscience would nag him. He would think about the money Griff had left him when he died, the profitable investments from his lavish salary and the promise he had made. Though he had kept track of Violet through her aunt, Harriet Ardmore, he hadn’t been back to see the girl since the day they were wed.

      He had planned to be there when her father died, but Griff had passed with very little warning, leaving Rule no time to make the monthlong crossing from London to Boston. He’d sent a letter to Violet, of course, expressing his condolences, then was careful to write her a short note at least every other month.

      But it wasn’t the same as assuming his role of husband.

      As he made his way out of the ballroom and stepped into the cool night air, he told himself it was time he kept his word. In the next week or two, he vowed, he would book a trip to Boston.

      It was past time he went to collect his bride.

      Rule ignored the sinking in the pit of his stomach.

      Violet stepped off the clipper ship Courageous, grateful to once again be standing on dry land. At last, she was in London. She tightened her hold on the reticule hanging from her wrist and glanced at her surroundings. The docks buzzed with activity: stevedores unloading cargo, passengers disembarking from an endless line of ships along the quay, merchants hawking their wares to a herd of newly arrived, unsuspecting prey.

      Gulls screeched overhead, their raucous cries mingled with the clatter and clank of ships’ rigging, sounds Violet had grown so accustomed to she barely noticed.

      “Isn’t this exciting?” Her cousin, Caroline Lockhart, hurried along beside her, next to Mrs. Cummins, a lady of impeccable credentials who had been paid to act as their traveling companion.

      “It is quite a bit different than I imagined,” Violet said, peering up at the skyline marked by tall church spires and a haphazard array of roofs dotted with chimney pots. “Everything looks older than I thought but that only seems to make it more charming.”

      Though the area around the docks was certainly not the best. The buildings here were dilapidated and in need of repair, and aside from the travelers, most of the people on the streets were dressed in shabby clothes.

      “I’ll hire us a carriage,” offered Mrs. Cummins, a bigboned, sturdy woman with iron-gray hair. They would be parting company soon, once Violet arrived at the residence belonging to her husband.

      Husband. The word left a bad taste in her mouth. She hadn’t seen Rule Dewar since their wedding day three years ago.

      Oh, he had sent an occasional note but clearly he had no intention of fulfilling his duties to his wife.

      And Violet was extremely glad.

      She had been so young when she had met him. Young and impressed with his extravagant good looks. And she’d been grieving for the father she would soon have to bury. Griff wanted her to marry and she would have done anything to please him—even wed a man she didn’t know.

      “All right, girls, here we are.” Mrs. Cummins led them toward a ramshackle coach pulled by two tired-looking bay horses. The driver tipped his hat as he jumped down from the box and began hefting their steamer trunks into the boot at the rear of the vehicle.

      Mrs. Cummins, very conscientious in her duties, watched the proceedings with a discerning eye. She had taken the job as companion in Aunt Harriet’s place since Aunt Harry turned green at the mere thought of four long weeks at sea.

      The substitution was fine by Violet, who had been living mostly on her own since her father died. Desperate to fill her days with something more than sadness and grief, she had begun taking an interest in her father’s Boston munitions factory.

      Growing up, she had spent a great deal of time there, learning about the business of making muskets and pistols, enjoying the hours with her father, playing the role of surrogate son.

      “Come, girls,” Mrs. Cummins called out to them. “Let us get ourselves inside. This isn’t a good place to dawdle.”

      The coachman held open the door and waited for each of them to climb into the worn leather interior. Violet settled herself in the seat, adjusted her conservative navy-blue traveling gown and tightened the strings of the matching bonnet beneath her chin, but her thoughts remained on her father.

      In the beginning, he had been concerned that an interest in business might not be wise for a young lady, but soon it became apparent she was far more excited about making money than she was about playing the role of wealthy, pampered young lady.

      Then, six months after Griff had died, Mr. Haskell, head of the Boston branch of the company, had suddenly taken ill and been forced to retire. Aunt Harry had nearly suffered an apoplexy when Violet told her she planned to take over Mr. Haskell’s duties, but Violet assured her that she would keep her role completely secret, and eventually her aunt had bent to Violet’s very strong will.

      Mrs. Cummins’s worried voice drew her attention. “Dear me, what has happened to that address?” Her chubby hands dug frantically through her reticule. “I can’t seem to find the paper it was written on.”

      “Number six Portman Square,” Violet told her, knowing the address by heart. It was printed at the top of Rule’s gold-embossed personal stationery, there on each of the very few letters she had received in the past three years.

      Mrs. Cummins rapped on the roof of the carriage. “Driver, did you hear that?”

      “Aye, madam. Number six Portman. ’Tis a bit o’ a ride, but I’ll get ye there safe and sound.”

      “I hope it doesn’t take too long,” Caroline said with a weary sigh. “I am beyond ready to take off my shoes and put my feet up for a while.” Like Violet, Caroline was also nineteen. The two were alike in other ways, as well. Each was a bit too outspoken and unfashionably wont to do as she pleased, but Violet was better at disguising her nature than Caroline, who didn’t much care what other people thought of her.

      She glanced outside the window, checking the angle of the sun. The afternoon was waning and all of them were tired. Echoing Caroline’s sentiments, Violet could hardly wait to reach their destination.

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