Rule's Bride

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Author's Note

Boston, 1857

T
hey say good things come to those who wait, but Rule Dewar wasn't so sure. Standing in the long marble hallway at Griffin Heights, his employer's palatial estate on the outskirts of Boston, Rule waited nervously while the stone-faced butler rapped on the study door.

Ignoring the urge to adjust the knot on his cravat and smooth his hair, he straightened at the sound of muffled footsteps approaching from the opposite side of the door. The door swung open and the man inside the study smiled, clearly anticipating his visitor's arrival.

“Rule! Come in, my boy. I appreciate your stopping by on such short notice.” Howard Griffin, head of Griffin Manufacturing, makers of high-quality armaments, welcomed him into the study, a vast, book-lined chamber that took up a goodly portion of the west wing of his mansion.

Rule walked past him into the room. “It wasn't any trouble. I was just going over some of the design change proposals you asked me to look at.”

Griffin, in his early forties and nearly as tall as Rule, had a solid build and reddish-brown hair. He walked over to a pair of polished mahogany doors and slid them open. Hidden within was a sideboard lined with bottles of expensive liquor and cut-crystal decanters on gleaming silver trays.

“So what did you think of the new designs?” Griffin asked as he took down a pair of crystal glasses and set them on the sideboard.

“I agree with your assessment. I believe eventually the smooth bore will be replaced entirely by the rifled barrel. Which means we should consider changing the percentages of each kind of musket now being produced.”

Griffin smiled, clearly pleased, though Rule had the impression business was not what the man had asked him there to discuss.

“Care for a whiskey?” The older man held up a decanter filled with golden-brown liquid. “Or perhaps you would rather have something else.”

Rule preferred brandy, a slightly less potent beverage, but the Americans seemed to like the stronger liquor and he had grown accustomed to the taste. “Whiskey is fine.”

Griffin poured both of them a drink and handed one of the glasses to Rule, who took a sip, the burn of the alcohol easing a little of his tension. Not all, though. Giving in to the urge, he ran a hand over his wavy black hair to smooth the windblown strands back into place. It wasn't every day his boss, the wealthy owner of the company, invited him into his home.

Griffin didn't ask him to sit down but guided him toward a window overlooking the garden. Though early in the year, spring blossoms had begun to peek through the soil, and the winding brick pathways were meticulously maintained.

Griffin swirled the liquor in his glass. “In the time
you've worked for me, Rule, you've done an excellent job. I made a wise decision in hiring you.”

“Thank you, sir.” In spite of the fact he was only four-and-twenty, he had been given an impressive amount of responsibility, mostly a result of his Oxford education, which seemed to impress the Americans, but also because of his pedigree.

Rule wasn't stupid. Being an English aristocrat gave him entry into the top levels of society on both sides of the ocean. Being the brother of a duke opened an amazing number of doors and Rule was willing to use every advantage to further his career.

Griffin turned to stare out the window. In the distance a marble fountain sprayed water into the bright spring sunshine. There was something in his manner that seemed in contrast to his usually dynamic nature.

“I believe you've met my daughter, Violet.”

“Yes, sir, on several occasions. Lovely girl.”

“She is young yet, only sixteen, and a bit of a tomboy. My fault, that. I never had a son, so I indulged her.”

Rule's gaze followed Griffin's to a huge sycamore on the right side of the fountain. Beneath the branches, Violet Griffin sat in a rope swing, laughing as she pushed herself higher and higher into the air, her full skirt and petticoats billowing out around her stocking-clad ankles. She had a heart-shaped face, a boyish figure and hair the color of new copper pennies.

“As I was saying, she is young yet, but she looks a great deal like her mother—God rest her soul—and in time I believe she'll turn into quite a beauty.”

“I'm sure she will.” Rule sipped his drink, having no idea how the gangly young girl would look when she grew up and wondering where the conversation was leading.

Griffin turned. His gaze zeroed in on Rule's face. “Unfortunately, I won't be around to watch that transformation.”

Rule's head came up. “Sir?”

“I'm dying, Rule. There is no easy way to say it. I've been to a number of physicians, all of whom agree. I'm dying and there is no way to keep it from happening.”

The breath lodged in Rule's lungs. For the first time he noticed the slightly yellow cast to Griffin's skin, the faint purple hollows beneath his eyes.

He swallowed. “What…what is it, sir? What sort of illness has afflicted you?”

Griffin's eyes looked bleak. He shook his head. “Some kind of liver malfunction. Nothing they can do to stop it.”

Rule's chest was squeezing, making it difficult to breathe. Howard Griffin was one of the most vital men he had ever met. An aura of power and authority seemed to follow him wherever he went. They didn't know each other well, and yet Rule had enormous respect for him.

“I'm sorry, sir. I find myself utterly at a loss for words. You say these doctors are certain?”

“I'm afraid so, yes, and as much as I would like to pretend otherwise, it is time I accepted the fact and made plans accordingly.”

Rule steeled himself. “Whatever you need, you know you can count on me.”

Griffin's lips faintly curved with something that looked like satisfaction. “That is what I'd hoped you would say.” He turned back to the window. “Though I doubt what I am going to ask will remotely resemble what you might be thinking.”

Rule made no comment.

“Whatever fate holds in store for me, my foremost concern is the welfare of my daughter. I need to know her
future will be secure. I need to be certain she will be well cared for and that she'll have the sort of home a woman wants. In short, I need to find her a husband.”

Rule's stomach knotted. Surely Howard Griffin wasn't thinking of him as a candidate for his daughter's hand in marriage?

“She likes you, Rule. In fact, I believe she even harbors some sort of schoolgirl crush on you.”

“You are not thinking—”

“Actually, I am, but don't look so horrified. What I am about to propose isn't quite what you think.”

“I understand your fears, Mr. Griffin, but as you said, your daughter is only sixteen.”

“And yet it is my duty as her father to arrange for her future, to ensure she marries well and is happy and well cared for. If there were more time, of course, I would do things differently. Unfortunately, time isn't something I have.”

Rule could only imagine how the man must feel. He had a daughter he loved and now he would never see her grow into a woman. “I see your dilemma, sir, but I'm afraid…”

“My choices are limited, Rule. I need to make arrangements for her future, though in some ways she is still a child. Which is the reason I would require her future husband to wait until she has reached her maturity before the marriage is consummated. She would have to be at least eighteen.”

Rule found himself shaking his head. “I'm sorry, sir. As much as I respect you, if you are asking me to marry your daughter, I'm afraid I'll have to—”

“Before you give me your answer, at least hear me out.”

The man was dying. The least Rule could do was be polite enough to listen. He gave a curt nod of his head. One thing was sure. No matter how much he admired Howard
Griffin, he wasn't about to get married and especially not to a sixteen-year-old girl.

“Why don't we sit down and I'll tell you what I am proposing. Perhaps when I am finished, you will no longer look at me as if I have already lost my wits.”

Rule managed a smile. Damn, he bloody well liked this man. He hated the thought of him dying so many years before his time.

It was a shame he would have to refuse him.

 

Seated on an ornate gold velvet settee in her bedroom, Violet Griffin sat next to her cousin and best friend, Caroline Lockhart. Eyes red rimmed from crying, Violet blew her nose into a lace-trimmed handkerchief and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“I still can't believe it.”

“It isn't fair,” Caroline said. “You've already lost your mother. You don't deserve to lose your father, too.”

Violet sniffed, wiped away fresh tears. She had been crying for days, ever since her father had called her into his study and told her the terrible truth—that in less than a year, he would be dead. “Father says life is never fair.”

“I suppose not, but it certainly should be.”

Violet looked up at her friend. “F-Father wants me to marry. He says it's the only way he can die in peace.”

Caroline's pale blue eyes widened. Blonde and fair and an inch taller than Violet, she shifted on the sofa, the skirt of her pink taffeta tea gown making a rustling sound as she moved. “Dear Lord, you are only sixteen!”

“It doesn't matter.”

Caroline bit her lip. “So whom does he want you to marry?”

“The Englishman, Rule Dewar. You remember him. He
came here for supper several times and on another day came to luncheon. You met him at luncheon.”

Caroline's expression turned dreamy. “It isn't as if I would forget. I have never seen a more beautiful man.”

Violet just nodded. “That is what I thought the first time I saw him. He has the most amazing blue eyes and his hair is so black it looks blue.” She glanced down at her lap then back at her friend. “Do you think I should marry him? Father wants to make sure my future is secure before—before…”

“Your father loves you very much,” Caroline said softly.

“I know he does.” Violet dabbed at a tear escaping down her cheek. “So should I? Papa has always asked so little of me and it would please him so greatly.”

“Do you think… Does Rule want to marry you?”

“I don't know. Father says he does.”

“It's an odd name—Rule. Where do you suppose it came from?”

“Father says it was his great-grandfather's name, inherited from the mother's side of the family or some such thing. He says the two of them have already come to a financial arrangement that would take care of both of us. He says Rule wouldn't actually…he wouldn't actually become my husband until I turned eighteen.”

Caroline nodded. “You mean he won't demand his husbandly rights before you are old enough.”

“I suppose.” Violet twisted the damp handkerchief in her hands. “Until then, he is going back to London to manage the plant we own there.”

Caroline smoothed her pink taffeta gown. “So do you want to marry him?”

Violet shook her head. “I don't want to marry anyone. Not yet, at any rate. But if I have to get married…well, then, I guess I would choose Rule.”

Caroline grinned. “Can you imagine? The man is the brother of a duke! If you marry him, you'll be the envy of every girl at Broadmoor.”

Mrs. Broadmoor's Academy for Young Ladies, which both girls currently attended, was the most exclusive finishing school in Boston. Violet didn't particularly like the place. She preferred a different sort of education, the kind her father had already provided: math and history, science and geography, French, Latin and Greek.

But she was determined to be the lady her father always wanted her to be, so she applied herself with equal purpose to her studies at the academy.

Tears welled. Now it wouldn't matter if she graduated at the top of her class. Her father would never know.

She took a shaky breath. Whether he knew or not didn't matter. Violet would know, and pleasing him now was more important than ever.

There and then, she made her decision.

“I'm going to do it, Carrie. I'm going to marry Rule Dewar.”

Caroline let out a girlish squeal, slid over and hugged her. “You're going to be a bride! I can hardly believe it!”

Violet stared down at the handkerchief in her lap and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Neither can I.”

 

Two weeks passed. It seemed the blink of an eye to Rule. It was Saturday, a warm spring day he tried to see as a positive omen for the monumental decision he had made. Standing in the vast gardens at the rear of the Griffin mansion in front of a flower-covered arch above the altar, Rule stared up the aisle at the future Mrs. Rule Dewar.

She looked exactly like what she was, a naive young girl barely out of the schoolroom. Even in an elaborate wed
ding gown fashioned of endless rows of white Belgian lace, she was a gangly, boyish young woman. Hardly ready for marriage and certainly not the sort Rule would choose if she were.

In truth, marriage was the last thing he wanted.

But Howard Griffin was beyond persuasive, and the deal he had offered was more than anything Rule could have dreamed. After Griffin's death, once the marriage was consummated, he would inherit half of Griffin's fortune and become half owner of Griffin Manufacturing. The other half would belong to Violet, the woman soon to become his wife.

The laws were different in America and his bride's fortune would remain her own, but together they would be a powerful force in the financial world.

And there was an added benefit. Aside from the money and ownership of an extremely successful company, Rule would be fulfilling his father's greatest wish. The late Duke of Bransford was convinced that an alliance with the Americans would carry the Dewar family securely into the next century, and Rule had promised to see it done.

Marriage and a business that spanned the Atlantic would certainly be a satisfactory means of making that happen.