Page 4 of The Scarred Duke's Bride
“You’re very welcome, Mr. Campbell. And congratulations on your upcoming nuptials.”
* * *
Eric straightened his cravat as he stepped into his carriage that would transport him to Mayfair where he hoped to meet with the Duke of Riverhead. Victor Stark was a very distant cousin, and he knew little about the man. What he did know for sure was that this was a tremendous opportunity for his branch of the family to elevate their legacy to new heights.
He looked out of the window, watching the streets roll past, remembering his father, Richard Campbell. As a member of the gentry, but untitled, he had forged respect for the family by building a fortune worthy of the name. As the first-born son, Alexander was his heir, his right hand. As the second son, Eric had decided to buy his commission and join the navy.
Sitting back in the seat, he endured the endless bumps and sways brought about by driving on the potholed road. It was difficult to believe that he was here although that had always been a possibility. Certainly, when his father had taken them around to learn what businesses they owned, he took both sons and made sure they both had the knowledge and skill to continue his legacy.
Eric knew he would have done the same for William had he not been ailing by the time his third son was born. By then, Alexander had pretty much been running the day-to-day operations and doing a marvelous job of it.
Eric felt a pang of loss at the thought of his brother. He would miss him always. Alexander had been a good brother and a great friend.
I will do you proud, my brother. I promise you.
The hansom came to an abrupt halt, and he peered out in surprise, wondering what might have caused this unscheduled stop. He saw that there was a line of carriages in front of him that also seemed to have stalled.
How strange…
Climbing carefully down, he decided to go and see what might be causing this hold-up. “Wait here for me; I shall be back,” he told his coachman before walking determinedly down between the carriages.
ChapterThree
They had left Stark Manor before sunrise, barely managing to gulp down some tea before they were on the road. Mrs. Beecham wanted to arrive in the city while it was still daylight.
“We don’t want to be set upon by brigands, now do we?” she asked.
Freya rolled her eyes. She found Mrs. Beecham to be a tad dramatic which was fine ordinarily, but Freya was nervous about this meeting with her father. What would he say to them? How were they to act? It had been a while since they’d been in his presence, and she was afraid she’d forgotten how to be so as not to set him off.
Isabella was singing softly by her side, swaying gently from side to side with the movement of the carriage as she read her book. It was some French tale of love and longing — Isabella had offered to read it aloud, but Freya’s French wasn’t as good as Isabella’s, so she had declined.
In any case, she was too nervous to pay attention to trivial things. She envied Isabella’s ability to just disappear into her book as if there was nothing to fear. Freya hoped one day to be like her.
Much to Mrs. Beecham’s relief, they did arrive in London by late afternoon. There were an awful lot of carriages on the road, and Freya stuck her head out of the window, overwhelmed by the smells and noise.
Suddenly, she spotted a small rabbit on the side of the road, hunched in on itself, clearly terrified. “Stop!” she shouted, startling Mrs. Beecham and causing Isabella to actually jump in her seat. Picking up the umbrella, she banged on the roof a few times until the coachman came to a halt. She opened the door and stepped out.
“What’s the matter, ma’am?” he called but she ignored him, walking back to where she saw the rabbit. “We’re blocking the road, ma’am!” the coachman continued, but she waved a dismissive hand. No doubt, he could sort it out without her input.
She bent down, far enough away from the rabbit not to seem like a threat. “Hail little fellow.” She looked around for some plants she could feed it, wondering if grass might do. She reached out to pluck a piece of grass and froze.
Hidden beneath the foliage by the roadside was a ghost orchid. Freya had only ever seen pictures of the plant. While she was distracted staring at the plant, the rabbit hopped away, disappearing in the blink of an eye. She looked around, biting her lip but couldn’t help but be drawn back to the plant.
She stared at it, wondering how it had managed to thrive by a busy thoroughfare. She looked up, noting the small wood bordering the road, probably a part of Hyde Park. She leaned closer, examining it.
She had read that the plant did not rely on sunlight to produce food for itself. Instead, it relied on a kind of sponge to feed itself and only ventured out of the soil to produce seeds and flowers sometimes after thirty years.
That’s why it was so rare to see one, and Freya could not believe there was one just growing on the roadside.
She was strongly tempted to uproot it and take it home with her, but she wasn’t sure it would survive.
Someone cleared their throat loudly behind her, but she paid them no mind, assuming it was the coachman again.
“Excuse me madam; would you care to explain what you think you are doing?”
The voice was most definitely not that of the coachman. It was much deeper, and the coachman’s voice didn’t make her want to shiver. She stood up and turned around and jerked, letting out a startled yell as her eyes fell on the tall man’s face. He was dressed in a black suit, a hat pulled low over his head, long black hair blowing gently in the breeze beneath it. Her eyes had fallen immediately on the menacing scar on his face, his intense blue eyes gleaming with annoyance at her.
Pirate!
