Always the Rebel, page 1
Always the Rebel
Never the Bride
Book 10
Emily E K Murdoch
© Copyright 2021 by Emily E K Murdoch
Text by Emily E K Murdoch
Cover by Dar Albert
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com
Produced in the United States of America
First Edition January 2021
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notes:
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Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch
Never The Bride Series
Always the Bridesmaid (Book 1)
Always the Chaperone (Book 2)
Always the Courtesan (Book 3)
Always the Best Friend (Book 4)
Always the Wallflower (Book 5)
Always the Bluestocking (Book 6)
Always the Rival (Book 7)
Always the Matchmaker (Book 8)
Always the Widow (Book 9)
Always the Rebel (Book 10)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch
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
Epilogue
About Emily E K Murdoch
Chapter One
Sophia took a deep breath and knew there was a high chance she would regret this within five minutes.
Go on, whispered a part of her. You have nothing left to lose, no pride to protect. They have done everything to you they possibly could. It’s time to walk through the world on your own terms.
A smile flickered across her face as she pushed back a curl of dark hair. The imposing house stood before her, wedding guests staring curiously—or in some cases, in absolute horror.
Her smile broadened. Well, they were all talking about her anyway, weren’t they? Time to give them something to talk about.
Walking up the steps with far more boldness than she felt, Miss Sophia Worsley entered the wedding reception of the gentleman who, just a few weeks ago, had been her own betrothed.
She had never been to Lenskeyn House before. It was grand, the hallway wide and tall, packed with the few wedding guests who had deigned to attend Jacob Beauvale’s scandalous wedding.
Not for much longer. As Sophia stood in the doorway with a bright smile, every eye turned from their conversations, the champagne handed out by liveried footmen, the bride and groom—and toward her.
The whispering started immediately. Sophia’s smile did not falter as her quivering fingers smoothed down the linen of the breeches she had chosen for the occasion.
It was bold. After all, their footman, Alexander, would not notice his spare breeches were missing until it was all over, and she was almost sure she could return them without him guessing.
Although now that she looked at everyone from Bath’s highest society, she wondered whether the rumors would reach the footman before the breeches did.
Sophia took a few steps forward and helped herself to a flute of champagne from a footman unable to speak. A garbled groan emerged from his mouth, and Sophia winked.
“What a wonderful wedding reception,” she said to him in a mock whisper, ignoring the scandalized murmurs shifting around the room. “This should have been mine, you know.”
The poor footman, only about fifteen years of age, had not expected a young lady to arrive at the wedding reception wearing tight breeches and a gentleman’s shirt.
Sophia grinned and stepped away, inclining her head to Lady Romeril, who was turning an interesting shade of beetroot. She could almost hear the woman’s unspoken retort.
“Miss Sophia Worsley—and in breeches, too! It is disgraceful, the very idea! Everyone can see her ankles—her calves! And the way it—no, it is simply not to be borne. After everything I have done for her!”
Sophia passed Lady Romeril without saying a word. Forgiveness would come, but she was not quite ready to speak with Lady Romeril. Not after she had orchestrated Sophia’s most significant embarrassment to date.
No, she was done with gentlemen, done with marriage. The entire affair had taught her one thing: men were not to be trusted, and if she was going to be happy, it would be alone.
A voice rose above the chatter. The bride. The woman who had stolen her fiancée on the very day of her wedding and was now married to Jacob. Elizabeth was laughing at a joke, nothing but love on their faces.
It was enough to make Sophia sick.
“You know, I can never say my life has been dull,” the new Mrs. Beauvale was saying to Jacob with a mischievous smile. “Why, for a moment there in the church when I saw…”
Her gaze had been moving about the room, taking in the splendor of her wedding reception, but halted abruptly when it fell on Sophia. Jacob turned around, and his mouth fell open.
Sophia’s smile did not disappear. There was no warmth in her eyes. Jacob did not deserve warmth. No, what he deserved was unspeakable. But his jilted fiancée appearing at his wedding reception in breeches?
That was a start.
Sophia bowed as more guests started to notice. Their gasps were becoming quite audible, but not enough to mask the astonishing comments.
“Is that a lady in breeches?”
“Good God, what will they think of next?”
“She looks remarkably familiar—Christ, is that Miss Worsley? The first bride?”
And amongst them all, Sophia was able to make out the cutting remarks of the woman who had seduced her intended and convinced him to leave her at the altar.
“Well,” breathed Elizabeth with a laugh, “that is bold.”
“She cannot be serious,” Jacob said quietly. “What does she think she’s playing at?”
This was intolerable. Heat rose in Sophia’s chest and up her neck, but she would not permit them to control this situation. She was the rebel here, and she would have her way.
“Good afternoon, all, and what a lovely day it has been,” said Sophia loudly, her voice carrying. “Though what you are all looking at, I cannot imagine. Is there any punch anywhere, do you know?”
For the shortest of moments, her gaze caught Jacob’s. His eyes did not waver. It could all have been so different if only he had been loyal. If only he had been brave enough to ignore the woman attempting to get her claws into him.
This would have been her wedding reception. It would all have been so different.
“Jacob,” Sophia said, against her will. She had promised herself she would not attempt to speak with him, but there he was, just feet away, and—
Without saying a word, he turned away. He took his new wife’s hand and strode on, slamming the door behind them.
Silence now rang out in the hall. Faces turned to look at her, and there was no kindness, no commiseration as she deserved. No, pure judgment rained down silently, and Sophia stood, head held high, against them all.
How dare they. It was outrageous—it was criminal! If she had a brother, he would have called out Jacob for abandoning her after a year’s engagement.
He had promised to marry her. He had proposed, and he had met her parents. Her father had grown to like him. And now he was in another room, undoubtedly kissing the woman he had been slighting her for the entire time. It had all been a lie.
The whispering started again. Sophia knew precisely what they were saying as she sipped her cold champagne, the bubbles making her feel a little more alive.
Yes, that was the Worsley girl, poor thing. Jilted at the altar, and at almost three and twenty. She was fast running out of time, and how would she find a gentleman to marry her wearing breeches in public!
Sophia’s eyes narrowed. Well, she would never marry now. Gentlemen simply were not worth the agonizing over. And if turning up in breeches brought a little notoriety to the happy couple, they deserved it.
“That was poorly done, my girl, and I think you will regret it.”
Sophia turned around with a sickly smile for Lady Romeril. “Good afternoon to you, too, Lady Romeril.”
The elderly lady ignored the sycophantic tone. “No need to tie yourself up in knots, Miss Worsley. You should not have come, and you know that.”
Late into her seventies, Lady Romeril was a bastion of polite society. She should never have permitted the older woman to introduce her to Jacob. That was where it had all started, when her life had fallen apart.
“Why not?” Sophia said lightly, finishing her glass of champagne. “All of Jacob’s family and acquaintances are here, and I know him almost as well as anyone.”
The words came from a long way off, but Sophia forced down the pain that would, in time, cause tears to fall.
Lady Romeril was shaking her head. “I know it was a shock—”
“A shock!” Sophia did not bother to keep her voice down. Why should she? The bride and groom had not rejoined their wedding celebration. God knew what they were doing, so she would provide the guests with entertainment. “A shock? After waiting for a full twelvemonth? Then he decides midway through our vows before God to walk away from me?”
Each word jabbed another dart into her heart. The—the damned man! How could he have treated her like that? After she had been so vulnerable, and after he knew what had happened before?
“The way I heard it,” Lady Romeril said low with a stern look, “you attempted to blackmail my godson into carrying out his commitment to you. Hardly a ladylike endeavor.”
Sophia swallowed. The pointed glares from the other wedding guests were starting to irritate her, but she could not stop them. Her mere presence was enough, but the breeches were gaining true attention.
A prickle of regret attempted to sear her heart, but she pushed the emotion away. She was going to see this through.
“True, I did attempt to reason with his better nature,” she said quietly. “But only after…he was the one seeing her the whole time!”
“And if I had known, I would certainly have advised him to choose between you two much earlier,” said Lady Romeril with a sniff. “What a fool he was—but a fool, not a brigand.”
“I think you may have felt differently,” said Sophia haughtily, “if it was your daughter, or you, Lady Romeril, who had been jilted at the altar. And besides…”
She coughed and wondered whether she was bold enough to say it. But this was Lady Romeril, after all. She undoubtedly knew.
“I have been jilted before, as I am sure you know,” she said, her voice lowering for the first time in their conversation. “He knew it. I told him…told him not to break my heart.”
The last word wavered, and the fierce sting of tears threatened in her eyes.
This was a mistake. She should not have come to the wedding, let alone the reception. But she had to see it—she had to see him married. Otherwise, she would always wonder, a small part of her would always hope.
All her hopes had come to naught. It was galling to see him married to another, painful to see Mrs. Howard become Mrs. Beauvale—her name. The name she should have had.
And the child, too. Yes, everyone said that the widowed Howard’s child was her first husband’s, but Sophia was not so sure. No matter what Jacob told the world, that baby was his.
It was rather rebellious of him, really, and she had never thought he had it in him. Bedding a woman and getting her with child mere weeks before her husband died.
A carriage accident. Sophia snorted. No one believed that.
Lady Romeril was evidently expecting her to speak.
Sophia sighed. “I may have been wrong to attempt to force the engagement through to a wedding, but I had to take things into my own hands.”
The older woman raised her eyebrows. “How original.”
A flicker of irritation soared through Sophia’s mind. “I have no brothers, and you have met my father. Who else did you think was going to stand for my rights as an engaged woman?”
Lady Romeril nodded. “You felt as though you had no one to speak for you?”
Sophia opened her mouth to reply but was distracted. The door had opened, and the bride and groom, beaming and both looking a little pink in the face, entered the hallway to cheers from their guests.
She shook her head. “No one to speak for me, no one to act for me. No one to do the right thing by me, and so yes, I attempted to force the issue. It did not work, of course.”
No matter the pain, she could not look away. Jacob’s smile was broad, his forehead untroubled. His hand was around the waist of his bride as she laughed at something he said.
They were so happy. So unbearably happy.
“And here I am, unmarried after two engagements,” said Sophia bitterly. “No gentleman will ever wish to marry me now.”
“Not in those breeches, at any rate,” snapped Lady Romeril. “Get a grip of yourself, Miss Worsley. Go home before you embarrass yourself any further.”
With a sweep of silks, she was gone.
Sophia held her head up high despite her instinct to leave, hail her carriage, and go straight home for a good cry. She had been determined to come here and show the world how little she cared that Jacob had married his new bride.
It had not worked. They were as happy as ever.
Sophia’s gaze moved around the room. The few people she recognized glared. There was Mrs. Lymington and Mrs. Marnion. They had been talking quietly together, but as Sophia looked at them, they both ceased talking and then spoke more rapidly.
Sophia swallowed. She did not care. Mrs. Marnion was a tittle-tattle gossip, and Mrs. Lymington was far too high and mighty. Her husband’s wealth from trade may have given her daughters large dowries but had bought them no elegance.
Continuing to look around the room, she saw Mrs. Cheswick. Sophia smiled. She had known her daughter, Tabitha, for years. Mrs. Cheswick frowned and looked meaningfully away. Sophia’s smile faded. That had been before Tabitha had married the Duke of Axwick, of course. Now Mrs. Cheswick’s grandson would be a duke.
Taking deep strides across the room—something which would have been impossible in a gown—Sophia poked her head into a side room where gentlemen were playing cards.
It had been full of good-natured chatter and boisterous laughter, but the room fell silent as she stood in the doorway, cigar smoke wafting up to the ceiling.
A nervous laugh erupted in one corner, and then chatter rose into the awkward silence. Sophia took a brave step forward.
Perhaps it was the breeches. Gentlemen always seemed to know what they were doing. No wonder gentlemen liked to wear them. They had a certain power skirts lacked.
Moving to the nearest table with an empty seat, Sophia lowered herself and smiled at the inhabitants of the card game.
“Deal me in,” she said sweetly.
Abraham Fitzclarence, Viscount Braedon, gave one of his characteristic chuckles.
“Miss Worsley, how delightful to see you! But you have to know I cannot possibly allow you to—”
Sophia had had enough. The champagne had utterly gone to her head—at least, the bubbles had—and she was tired of being laughed at. And at the same time, she gloried in it. It made no sense. She could not understand herself, but cards, she knew.
“Deal me in,” she said firmly, “if you know what is good for you, Braedon.”
The Duke of Axwick was seated beside him and laughed along with a gentleman she did not recognize.
