The Prince's Bride by Victoria Alexander Page A

believe Jocelyn will identify them, thus ruining their plans?”
    “Yes,” Beaumont said cautiously.
    Aunt Louella chuckled. “Delicious irony there, don’t you think?” She turned and let Becky help her from the room. “I do so love irony ...”
    Jocelyn stared after them. “I am glad one of us is finding this amusing.”
    “Two of us.” Beaumont’s voice sounded behind her.
    A dozen scathing comments rose to her lips but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a response. “Come along, Marianne, apparently I have to pack for my”—she gritted her teeth—“wedding.”
    “One bag, no more,” Beaumont called. “We will have to travel quickly and we will be on horseback.”
    “One bag? I can’t possibly—” She started to turn, then caught herself. No, there would be plenty of time later to trade barbs with the arrogant viscount. “Very well.” She continued toward the door.
    Behind her she could hear Marianne’s lowered voice and Thomas’s reply. It scarcely mattered what they were saying. Jocelyn’s fate was sealed. She would never be a princess. Never be more than a mere viscountess. She held her head high and marched out of the room.
    If it wasn’t for the threat her presence posed to her family she’d stay right here and take her chances. Run the risk of another shot in the night or a knife flung at her head or poison in her luncheon meal or any number of other ways to meet her demise. At the moment, danger of any kind was far preferable to marriage to Randall, Viscount Beaumont.
    At the moment, she’d rather be dead.
    “She’s not as bad as she seems.” Thomas took a sip of his brandy and studied his friend. The men had retired to the library, allegedly to discuss arrangements, but right now Rand wanted little more than to indulge in Thomas’s excellent liquor for the rest of the night.
    “Oh?” Rand raised a brow. “In what way?”
    “Well.” Thomas thought for a moment. “She is pretty.”
    “She’s exquisite.” Rand could well see why men had compared her hair to gold and her eyes to moonlight. Although they were mistaken. Her eyes were definitely the color of honey. Warm, tempting honey. “And she knows it.”
    “That she does.” Thomas chuckled. “Are you going to tell her you have money?”
    “What? And spoil her martyrdom? Let her believe what she wishes for now. Besides, my finances are nothing compared to yours and I doubt the lovely Jocelyn would be happy with anything less. The Beaumonts have made and lost any number of fortunes through the generations while your family”—he raised his glass in a salute—“has always managed to keep its money.”
    Thomas lifted his glass in response. “We Effingtons are clever when it comes to funds. Still, your fortune is quite respectable. Even impressive.”
    “We have succeeded in holding on to it through the last three generations. That’s something at any rate. I daresay, though, it’s not impressive enough for the fair Lady Jocelyn.” Rand chuckled in spite of himself. “She really is somewhat mercenary.”
    “That she is.” Thomas grinned.
    “Not precisely the quality I would wish for in a wife.” Rand heaved a heavy sigh.
    “What one wishes for and what one gets are often decidedly different.” Thomas drew a long sip, then continued. “And often decidedly better.”
    “Ah, words of wisdom late in the night,” Rand said wryly. “Pity your philosophy will not hold true in this case.”
    “Perhaps,” Thomas murmured.
    For a long time, neither spoke, sharing the kind of companionable silence known only to men secure in the knowledge of lasting and loyal friendship.
    It was somehow fitting to be in this room on this night with this friend. Seated in these very chairs, through the years of their acquaintance, he and Thomas had shared any number of brandies and traded any number of confidences and discussed any number of women. It was here a few months ago that Thomas had first complained of having the