The Bridal Swap. Karen Kirst
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blanched. “They were married two weeks ago. And she did not send me. Despite my insistence that you should be told in person, she refused to come.”
Whirling away from her, Josh battled conflicting emotions. Anger. Outrage. Disbelief. If the marriage had taken place two weeks ago, then they’d reconciled some time before.
He’d been duped.
His head pounding by this time, he strode to the edge of the embankment and hurled the bouquet, the kaleidoscope of colors cascading to the water’s surface and swirling downstream. He needed to be alone, needed to think through this upheaval in his plans.
“I appreciate your coming here, Miss Morgan. Now I must go.” He gave her a half bow. “Good day.”
Kate’s gaze lingered on the tender petals being crushed by the current before skittering to his retreating back. Collecting her skirts, she hurried after him. “Mr. O’Malley?”
When he stopped and glanced back, the tortured look in his eyes nearly took her breath away. “Yes?”
Kate stared at the man Francesca was to have married, unable to utter a word.
She’d looked at his picture when no one else was around, memorizing each feature. Intelligent brows, patrician nose, square jaw. His was a photogenic face.
On paper, he was merely a handsome stranger. The flesh-and-bone man was another matter entirely. In a word, he was intoxicating.
His dusky-gray, pin-striped suit, with its simple lines and understated elegance, molded to his broad shoulders and lean torso. His tan skin glowed with health and vibrancy, and his honey-brown hair was short, the ends bleached blond by the sun.
The neatly trimmed mustache and goatee covering his chin were new. Not usually taken by facial hair, Kate found his fascinating. He looked … mysterious. A bit untamed.
“Did you need something?” he prompted.
He dwarfed her by at least a foot. That wasn’t unusual. Most men did. “Can you direct me to Charlotte Matthews’s house?”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “You know Mrs. Matthews and her son?”
“She was my governess for many years. I haven’t met Tyler, but she mentions him quite often in her letters.”
“I see.” His eyes were an intriguing color, the shimmering, metallic blue of a blue morpho butterfly’s wings, pale around the pupil with a deeper ring of blue around the edges. So beautiful it made her wish for color photographs.
“Their farm is a mile or so outside of town. What time is your driver planning to leave?”
“As soon as I get settled at Charlotte’s.”
“You’re staying here tonight?”
“Actually, I’m planning to be here for at least a month, perhaps longer.”
His brows slashed down. “That long? May I ask why?”
“I’m here to take photographs of the mountains. I’m considering publishing a book about this area.”
“A book,” he repeated, clearly displeased. “You’re a photographer?”
Was he one of those men who disapproved of female professionals? “I am.”
His brilliant blue gaze assessed her. No doubt he was comparing her to her sister. She inwardly winced. She’d learned long ago that she didn’t measure up, would forever be in Fran’s shadow.
Men adored Fran. Women wanted to be her. Even their parents favored her—their mother especially.
Patrick and Georgia Morgan had wanted only one child. Francesca—the epitome of grace and loveliness—fulfilled their every dream of what a proper daughter should be. So when dark-haired, demanding Katerina arrived unexpectedly, Georgia had been less than thrilled.
A lengthy bout of colic made matters worse. For months, Georgia refused to visit the nursery, leaving Kate in the care of nannies. Perhaps that rough beginning had cast a pall over their relationship. Whatever the case, the distance between them seemed to grow wider with time.
Kate had given up trying to earn her mother’s love.
“If you’d rather not help me,” she said after a lengthy silence, “I’m sure I can find someone else.”
He blew out a breath. “It’s too far to walk. Mind if we take your rig?”
“Not at all.” They fell into step, as he matched his stride to hers. “I appreciate this.”
He merely nodded, his mouth set in grim lines. Once he’d given directions to her driver and tethered his horse to the rear of the carriage, he settled his tall frame in the seat across from her. Holding his hat in his hands, he took in the sumptuous mahogany fabric that covered every square inch of the carriage interior. What was he thinking?
His letters, which Fran had read aloud in the drawing room during afternoon tea, had been filled with descriptions of his family’s home and the town of Gatlinburg. Fran had laughed, calling him provincial. Kate disagreed. Josh’s letters had revealed a charming, thoughtful man who dearly loved his family and hometown.
Glancing out the window, she caught sight of Clawson’s Mercantile, the post office and a quaint white church framed by the mountains.
“Everything looks just as I’d imagined it,” she said without thinking. “Your description of Main Street makes me feel as though I’ve been here before.”
His voice dripped icicles. “You read my letters?”
“I … We …” she sputtered. “Well, y-yes. Fran read them aloud.” Mortified at her slip, Kate pretended an exaggerated interest in the tips of her tan leather ankle boots.
“Those were my private thoughts, intended for no one but Francesca.”
Silence settled heavy and oppressive between them.
“I am truly sorry,” she murmured. “I’ve hurt you—”
“No. Your sister did that all on her own.” He turned his head to glare out the window. “It’s becoming quite clear she did not hold me in the same regard as I did her.”
What could she say? That Fran was interested only in social standing and wealth? Why she’d ever accepted Josh O’Malley’s proposal was beyond Kate. Perhaps to make Percy jealous, so he’d come crawling back to her? If that was the case, the ploy had worked.
The man across from her looked lost. Adrift in a vast ocean with no rescue in sight. Fran had done this to him, but Kate had delivered the news. Did he despise her for listening to his letters? Did he consider her the enemy—guilty by association?
The carriage soon slowed and turned onto a rutted lane. The vegetation was thick on either side, and tree branches scraped along the sides of their rig, slapping against the half-open glass. Pine needles littered the bench seats and carpeted floor. Mr. Crandall, her fastidious footman, would be none too pleased.
Anticipation curled through her at the prospect of seeing her former governess again. For a time, kindhearted Charlotte Matthews had been the one bright spot in her otherwise lonely existence. They’d reconnected through correspondence, and the older lady had made it plain that Kate was welcome to visit anytime.
They rolled to a stop before a squat, haphazard dwelling nearly engulfed with ivy. Only the window and the door had not succumbed to the ivy’s onslaught. She frowned. Would there be room for her here?
The door swung open, and Mr. Crandall stood ready to assist her. Joshua O’Malley descended the steps after her, his expression an inscrutable mask.
Hands clasped at her waist, she turned to thank him, but he was already headed for his horse. It appeared he’d had all of her company he could stand. With a mental shrug, she approached the cabin and knocked twice.
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