The Stage Bride (The Daring Debutantes, Book 3)

The Stage Bride

Daring Debutantes, Book 3

Smashwords Edition

Jerrica Knight-Catania

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the

author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to any event, locale or person,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Stage Bride

Copyright 2013 by Jerrica Knight-Catania

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.

Cover design by Jerrica Knight-Catania

Table of Contents

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

Epilogue

About the Author

Praise for The Robber Bride, Daring Debutantes, Book 1—

An enjoyable afternoon's divertissement…that I couldn't put down. 

-June J. McInerney, Literary Blogger

Praise for The Gypsy Bride, Daring Debutantes, Book 2—

"Keeps you wondering the outcome, then when you think you know how it will end, she'll hand you a surprise!"

-Dee Foster, Amazon

For my daughter—

Your free spirit and bravery, even at such a young age, inspires me every day! May you grow up to be as kind-hearted and courageous as the young ladies within these pages.

One

Spring, 1827

This is absolutely the most preposterous idea you’ve ever had, Amelia!

Amelia Harding turned from her rickety old writing desk to level a pointed glare at her best friend and schoolmate, Margaret Pickering, whose blue eyes were round with fright. The sunlight filtered into their small, shared room, accentuating the dust that lingered in the air.

Don’t be such a ninny, Meg, Amelia replied. I need your support in this—I can’t have you going soft on me now.

But what if Ms. Denby finds out? What if you’re caught? Or…

Nothing is going to happen. Amelia stood and crossed to where her friend sat on the edge of her bed. It creaked under her weight as she took both of Meg’s hands in hers. I know what I’m doing.

Meg gave her a look that said she clearly did not believe her. You’ve never even been to London. Not even once. What will you do to survive?

Amelia patted her friend’s bright red head, as if she were a child who needed reassuring. I’ve already told you. I’ll go straight to Drury Lane. Even if I can’t secure an audition straightaway, I’m sure they’ll give me something to do. I know how to sew, and I know how to fix hair and apply face paint. Surely I can make myself useful for them.

Though the panic in Meg’s eyes had subsided, the worry still lingered in their bright blue depths. But what if you can’t?

Her friend was concerned—and probably for very good reason—but if she gave in to those concerns even for a moment, Amelia would back out. And she couldn’t back out. Not now. Not with what was ahead of her if she opted to go home to Father. London was no place for a gently bred lady, but neither was home.

She shook her head free of the thoughts of her father and moved back to the writing desk. With quill in hand, she began to write the letter that would hopefully gain her freedom.

Dear Ms. Denby,

I regret to inform you that I am unable to fetch Amelia myself and therefore

would very much appreciate it if you would send her to London via stage coach.

I will be there to meet her upon her arrival.

With kind regards,

Stewart Harding

There. Amelia said, holding up the letter to review her handiwork. I think that should do it.

I don’t have a good feeling about this, Meg said, shaking her head back and forth slowly.

Of course you don’t. You never have good feelings about anything that’s fun or adventurous.

It wasn’t a very nice thing to say, and when Meg deflated like a hot air balloon whose fire had been snuffed out, Amelia’s stomach turned to knots. It wasn’t her intention to hurt her feelings—Meg was her dearest friend in the whole world—but she didn’t know just how desperate Amelia’s situation was. It wasn’t the kind of thing Amelia wanted to burden her friend with. She was so beautiful and innocent; she didn’t need to know of the horrors Amelia had suffered before she came to Ms. Denby’s.

She crossed the room again and plopped down on the edge of the bed beside her friend. I’m sorry, Meg. I didn’t mean it.

Meg looked down at her hands. She fiddled with the folds of her skirts—something she did when she was nervous. No, it’s true, I suppose. But even so…this goes far beyond simple fun and adventure. This is downright dangerous.

It was true. Going to London alone with no contacts, nothing and no one to recommend her, was indeed dangerous. And probably the stupidest thing she’d ever thought to do.

She had no choice, however. She’d stayed at Ms. Denby’s School for Girls long enough. She had pretended to fail at many a subject in order to prolong her time here, but she was eighteen now. There was no way Ms. Denby would let her stay another year. Nor would her father allow it. It was time to graduate and move on, and she had to do it quickly before Father came to retrieve her.

When Amelia said nothing, Meg asked, Where will you stay?

Amelia shrugged. I’ve no idea. But I have some pin money. I’ve been saving whatever Father sent me for the last two years. I knew I’d be booted at some point or another.

But you’re not being booted! Meg said, jumping up on the bed and tucking her feet underneath her. Ms. Denby hasn’t said a thing about you needing to leave. Perhaps you should speak with her—explain yourself.

Amelia gave a dry little chuckle at her friend’s naïveté. It wasn’t a matter of asking Ms. Denby for more time. She was out of time. Father would come to fetch her, no matter what, and he’d force her into whatever marriage he deemed acceptable. And if she didn’t acquiesce, who knew what he would do. Lock her up in the small closet under the stairs for days on end until she was too weak to put up an argument? Or perhaps he’d resort to the lash?

Her stomach churned at the memories. If she didn’t change her line of thought, she’d make herself ill.

It’s not about needing more time. Amelia turned on the bed and took her best friend’s hands in hers. "I want to do this. I want to go to London, no matter how dangerous. I’m tired of being here. Can’t you see that? Five years of my life I’ve spent in these four walls, and while it’s better than the fate that awaits me at home, I can’t say it’s better than a life in London."

But—

Amelia put a hand to Meg’s mouth. No. No more buts. I’ve decided on this path, and this path I shall take. Now, are you going to help me or not?

Meg sat still and silent for a moment, but at long last, she nodded. Relief flooded through Amelia. She hadn’t realized until just then how much her friend’s support meant to her. She wrapped her arms around her Meg’s neck and squeezed tightly.

Thank you, my dear friend. Thank you.

~*~

When Thomas Barclay, future Viscount Grantham, had agreed on Tuesday evening to have dinner at his sister’s on Wednesday evening, this was not what he’d had in mind. Who did she think she was, anyway? Just because she had evaded hanging for something she should have been hanged for, according to English law, didn’t mean she was immune to his wrath. Of course Tom didn’t plan to hang his sister in the literal sense, but he hoped the piercing glare he sent her way right now did the job of a figurative hanging.

Don’t give me that look, Thomas, she said, piercing him back with an equally divisive glare. I may be younger than you, but clearly I have more sense. I am telling you you’re out of control.

Tom sneered, causing his sister’s emerald eyes to flash with anger. "And I’m telling you I don’t care what you think."

It’s not just what I think. The entire Town is talking about…about…

Bloody Town. Bloody London. Didn’t the gossips have anything better to do with their time? I’m not about to give in to what some old biddies are saying about me.

They’re not—

Enough! Tom held up a hand to stop his sister from lecturing him about the respectable people who were talking about what a complete failure he was. He didn’t need other people to tell him that. He knew good and well what a complete and utter disaster his life had become.

I think you should leave, Tom.

Victoria’s words fell over him like a heavy, wet blanket. They constricted his heart and made it difficult to draw air into his lungs. Why? And why did he care so much that she wanted him gone from London?

You need time away, she continued. Tom opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off. They will be here for the Season. You know that. And after the other night…

He turned away so his sister wouldn’t see the utter anguish that befell him. As if things hadn’t been bad enough before, seeing her again, knowing she was already…wed. Well, he’d seen the bottom of many a bottle in the last few days to compensate.

If you react the way you did at Robin’s come out every time you see them around Town, you’ll drink yourself into an early grave. Victoria reached across the dining room table, where they sat alone, and put her hand over his. I won’t have that happen to you. I love you too much.

Damn and blast, her eyes filled with tears. Don’t, he pleaded with his sister.

You’re all the family I’ve got, she continued.

What about Fin? What about Lily?

I love you all the same. Losing any of you would devastate me beyond repair.

Tom took a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh. With all his sister had been through, he was starting to feel guilty for making her worry so. And perhaps embarrassing her a little along the way. It was true, his behavior hadn’t been exemplary. To say he wasn’t handling Bianca’s rejection well would have been a great understatement. The journey he’d taken with her in his attempt to save her had bound their hearts together. Or so he’d thought. He’d suspected that she harbored feelings for her gypsy all the while, but he’d chosen to ignore it, damn foolish man that he was.

You need to go away, Tom. Get your head on straight, and stop—

Embarrassing you?

Victoria turned away, but said nothing, which confirmed he was right. He was humiliating her in front of the ton. Part of him felt bad for that, but another, more selfish part of him wanted to tell all those gossip mongers to go straight to Hell and mind their own business. He ought to be able to drink and whore if he so chose. They didn’t know the anguish he was in. They didn’t understand what it was like to fall madly in love with a woman and be so very close to making her your wife, only to have her choose a gypsy—a damned gypsy—instead. If anyone had a right to feel embarrassed, it was him, damn it.

He pulled his small, pewter flask from his pocket and threw back a swig of brandy. Victoria didn’t need to tell him that she disapproved—it was obvious in her flashing green eyes. But he needed something to alleviate the tightness that had built up in his chest.

Where the hell am I supposed to go? he asked over the burn in his throat.

Welwyn.

Tom leapt from his chair. Do you wish to sentence me to death by boredom?

Victoria glared at him. I don’t find that funny in the least, as someone who actually did face a death sentence not so long ago.

What the devil am I supposed to do in Welwyn?

"Whatever one does in the country, I suppose. The point is