Lord Trent: Love's Price Part 50

The organ began to play, and Helen glanced to the front of the church as Tristan and James moved to the altar with the vicar. Aiden Bramwell was with them, serving as Tristan's best man. Phillip would ultimately stand there too, with James, after he escorted Helen and Harriet down the aisle.

They were holding the ceremony in the village near Brookhaven, in the church where they'd never been welcome. As girls, their relatives had refused to let them attend lest the neighbors gossip about their ancestry.

It was amazing, seeing what power an earl could wield. Tristan was living at Brookhaven, preparing it for Harriet. With his now owning the property, Harriet was being lauded as a grand hostess, even though she hadn't yet stepped across the threshold.

She'd gone from being a social pariah to a sought-after celebrity, and Helen couldn't get over what a waste it had all been.

Their family tragedy was ended, but on such a joyous day, she wouldn't focus on the past. She gazed toward the altar-toward the future-where James waited for her.

The vicar's wife was in charge of the event, and she was frantically gesturing to Phillip's wife Anne to start down the aisle. Anne hurried over, hugged Helen and Harriet, then walked off, her measured strides keeping time with the music.

f.a.n.n.y was next, and with tears in her eyes, she hugged them, too.

"You both look so pretty," she gushed. "I'm so happy! I feel like I could burst!"

"We were just saying the same thing," Helen admitted.

"I'm so glad we're all together."

"So am I."

The vicar's wife gestured again, and f.a.n.n.y marched off, her bouquet trembling.

Phillip grinned and moved between them, ready to follow f.a.n.n.y, when the door to the church opened behind them, and they turned to see who had arrived.

To Helen's extreme astonishment, it was Lord Trent. She had sent him an invitation, but it had never occurred to her that he might show up.

They had met him on several occasions, and they were all still trying to figure out how their relations.h.i.+p should unfold. He was very handsome, very charming, and it was easy for Helen to imagine how her poor mother had fallen for him.

While in their company, he was cordial, but cool and detached. He appeared willing to work on a closer a.s.sociation, but there was an evident aloofness about him they couldn't breach, and Helen wondered if it was possible for him to bond on any significant level.

He was an enigma, one that she would spend the rest of her life unraveling.

"h.e.l.lo, Charles," Phillip said. "I'm delighted you could make it."

"I hope I'm not too late."

"No. Come in, come in."

"h.e.l.lo, Charles," Helen and Harriet said, too.

They had never considered calling him father. The appellation felt wrong and wasn't deserved. Trent seemed too formal, and Charles seemed just right, with Charles insisting it was the mode of address he preferred.

He kissed Helen on the cheek, then Harriet.

"My, what a pair of lovely brides," he praised. "But then, I'd expect nothing less from my daughters."

f.a.n.n.y had made it to the altar to join Anne and the men, and the guests were craning their necks, watching for Helen and Harriet to enter. The vicar's wife was motioning for them to proceed, but Charles ignored her.

"I have something for you," he mentioned.

He reached into his jacket and extracted two lockets. They hung from gold chains and were encrusted with diamonds, and they were in the shape of a figure-eight, like the mark on their wrists that had identified them as his children.

Helen was stunned that he'd thought of them, that he'd brought them such a precious gift.

"I bought one for f.a.n.n.y too," he explained, "so you'd all have one."

"That is so sweet," Helen said. "Thank you."

"May I, cherie?" He pointed to Helen, indicating that he wanted to fasten it round her neck.

"Of course," she replied.

She spun away, raising her hair so he could pin the clasp. Then he did the same for Harriet. As they turned back to face him, there was an awkward hesitation, then Harriet leapt forward, wrapped her arms around him, and gave him the fiercest hug in the world.

He was uncomfortable with the embrace and didn't seem to know how to accept it. As she pulled away, he smiled and patted her on the shoulder.

"Would you like to walk them down the aisle?" Phillip inquired.

"No, no, I don't want to create a fuss. It's their celebration. They should be the center of attention. Not me." He waved toward the impatient crowd. "I'll sit in the back, out of the way."

He slipped into the rear pew as Phillip positioned Helen and Harriet on either side of him.

"Are you ready?" Phillip asked.

"Yes," they answered together.

"Then let's go. We've kept everyone waiting long enough."

He offered each an arm, and they grabbed hold. The three of them started off, and Helen could feel Charles observing them, his gaze like a soft, encouraging caress, but she didn't glance back.

Her eyes were trained on the front, on the man who would soon be her husband.

They came closer and closer, and when they were a few feet away, Harriet leaned around Phillip and murmured, "I wish Mother was alive. I wish she was here to see this."

The sentiment finally unleashed the tears Helen hadn't shed. Love's price was high and difficult to pay. She wondered how differently things might have gone if their mother and father had wed, if she and Harriet had had a normal upbringing. But then, they would never have met Tristan and James. Their paths would never have crossed.

They stopped at the altar, the vicar directly before them.

He smiled and intoned, "Who gives these two sisters in holy matrimony?"

"I am their brother," Phillip responded, "and I give them."

He handed Harriet to Tristan and Helen to James.

Helen was shaking so hard that she could barely stand, but James drew her near, supporting her, cheris.h.i.+ng her.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered.

"I'm not."

"I'm right here with you," he said. "I'll always be right here."

THE END.

DON'T MISS THE THIRD AND FINAL NOVEL in CHERYL HOLT'S "LORD TRENT TRILOGY"

LOVE'S PERIL The story of John Sinclair, also known as Jean Pierre, The French Terror, the world's most notorious pirate!

Coming in July, 2013 Turn the page to read an excerpt now!

LOVE'S PERIL...

CHAPTER ONE.

Bramble Bay Estate, English Coast, June 1815...

Sarah Teasdale marched down the rutted lane. She was distracted and furious, so she wasn't paying attention. She tripped on a rock, twisted her ankle and fell, landing in a heap in the dirt.

She'd been shopping in the village and was walking home, so the contents of her basket spilled everywhere. The decanter of expensive brandy she'd specifically gone to purchase cracked open, the amber liquid spilling on the ground.

Luckily, she was alone, so no one had witnessed her humiliating tumble.

"Serves you right," she scolded.

All morning, she'd been in a dither, angry with her stepmother, Mildred, when it was pointless to be upset.

Sarah's mother had died when she was a baby, and her father had remarried shortly after. Sarah had no memories of her mother, and at age twenty-five, it seemed there had been no maternal figure but Mildred. Yet Mildred had never liked Sarah, though Sarah had no idea why.

She glanced about, taking stock of her location, her condition. Her palms were sc.r.a.ped and bleeding, her skirt muddy and torn where her knees had hit the gravel.

The rip in the fabric could be patched without too much trouble, which was a relief. Mildred was very stingy. She refused to spend even the smallest amounts on Sarah, declining to provide the barest necessities such as new undergarments, shoes, or gowns.

Sarah's life was so terrible, and she'd been so horribly abused, that she could have been Cinderella in the fairytale. That's how she felt: lonely and unappreciated and maltreated.

When her father, Bernard, had been alive, she and Mildred had lumped along without too much tension or bickering. Mildred's worst excesses had always occurred when Bernard wasn't looking. But Bernard had been deceased for several years, and Mildred's festering dislike of Sarah had been given free rein.

Still, despite Mildred's snubs and slights, Sarah tried to be helpful and obliging. She had to constantly remind herself that Mildred was simply a very unhappy, miserable person. In Sarah's dealings with her, she had to avoid the protracted arguments that fueled Mildred's temper.

The only other option was for Sarah to leave Bramble Bay, as Mildred often suggested. Yet Bramble Bay had been the Teasdale family home for two centuries, and Sarah was Bernard's only daughter-her sole sibling being her half-brother, Hedley.

Hedley was Mildred's son with Bernard. At Bernard's death, Hedley had inherited everything, with Sarah not receiving a penny of support, and Hedley and Mildred treated Sarah like an interloper. But she shouldn't have to leave and wouldn't let them chase her away.

Tears welled into her eyes, and she swiped them away. Normally, she wasn't ever gloomy, and she never moped or mourned her plight. Yet sometimes, she was just so tired of her meager, unpalatable existence. She'd give anything to change it.

A horse's hooves sounded around the bend in the road, and momentarily, a man trotted into view, mounted on a very fine white stallion. He reined in and stared down from his fancy saddle.

With his golden blond hair and striking green eyes, he was incredibly handsome. He had a high forehead, sharp cheekbones, and aristocratic nose. He was broad in the shoulders, muscled in his chest and thighs. His skin was bronzed from the sun, as if he worked out-of-doors, but he wasn't dressed as a laborer.

Attired in a flowing white s.h.i.+rt, tan breeches, and a pair of scuffed riding boots, he was actually quite das.h.i.+ng. Clean shaven, but needing to visit his barber, his hair was too long, pulled into a ponytail with a length of black ribbon.

And he had a looped gold earring in his ear.

She'd never seen a man with an earring before and couldn't decide what to make of it. The odd piece of jewelry probably indicated low character-perhaps he was a brigand-and she supposed she should be afraid of him. After all, she was on a deserted stretch of lane. Since she'd departed the village, she hadn't encountered another soul. If he had wicked intentions, there was no defender to rush to her aid.

But she didn't sense any menace. He had a dagger in a sheath at his waist, and a pistol strapped behind his saddle, so he certainly looked as if he could be dangerous, but he was smiling. "h.e.l.lo, cherie." His voice was tinged with a slight French accent. "Are you all right?"

"I think I am."

"What happened?"

"I tripped and fell."

"Are you injured?"

"Just my pride."

With the agility of a circus performer, he leapt to the ground and walked over. He dropped to his knees and reached for her hand.

"You've cut yourself."

"Yes."

"From your tumble?"

"Yes."

He retrieved a kerchief from his sleeve and gallantly pressed it to the oozing blood on her sc.r.a.ped palm. Then he stood and gathered the items from her spilled basket, placing them back inside it.

He picked up the empty brandy bottle.

"Waste of good liquor," he murmured.

"Yes, it was, and I'll never hear the end of it."

Her comment was petulant and snappish, and she was perplexed as to why she'd uttered it in front of a stranger.

He chuckled. "I take it you have someone impatiently waiting for you to arrive so they can begin imbibing."

"We're having important guests, and my stepmother wants to serve them the very best. There's a renowned vintner in the village, so I went to fetch his most expensive brew."

"Too bad for your guests that they'll miss out."