Rule's Bride. Kat Martin

grown so accustomed to she barely noticed.

      “Isn’t this exciting?” Her cousin, Caroline Lockhart, hurried along beside her, next to Mrs. Cummins, a lady of impeccable credentials who had been paid to act as their traveling companion.

      “It is quite a bit different than I imagined,” Violet said, peering up at the skyline marked by tall church spires and a haphazard array of roofs dotted with chimney pots. “Everything looks older than I thought but that only seems to make it more charming.”

      Though the area around the docks was certainly not the best. The buildings here were dilapidated and in need of repair, and aside from the travelers, most of the people on the streets were dressed in shabby clothes.

      “I’ll hire us a carriage,” offered Mrs. Cummins, a bigboned, sturdy woman with iron-gray hair. They would be parting company soon, once Violet arrived at the residence belonging to her husband.

      Husband. The word left a bad taste in her mouth. She hadn’t seen Rule Dewar since their wedding day three years ago.

      Oh, he had sent an occasional note but clearly he had no intention of fulfilling his duties to his wife.

      And Violet was extremely glad.

      She had been so young when she had met him. Young and impressed with his extravagant good looks. And she’d been grieving for the father she would soon have to bury. Griff wanted her to marry and she would have done anything to please him—even wed a man she didn’t know.

      “All right, girls, here we are.” Mrs. Cummins led them toward a ramshackle coach pulled by two tired-looking bay horses. The driver tipped his hat as he jumped down from the box and began hefting their steamer trunks into the boot at the rear of the vehicle.

      Mrs. Cummins, very conscientious in her duties, watched the proceedings with a discerning eye. She had taken the job as companion in Aunt Harriet’s place since Aunt Harry turned green at the mere thought of four long weeks at sea.

      The substitution was fine by Violet, who had been living mostly on her own since her father died. Desperate to fill her days with something more than sadness and grief, she had begun taking an interest in her father’s Boston munitions factory.

      Growing up, she had spent a great deal of time there, learning about the business of making muskets and pistols, enjoying the hours with her father, playing the role of surrogate son.

      “Come, girls,” Mrs. Cummins called out to them. “Let us get ourselves inside. This isn’t a good place to dawdle.”

      The coachman held open the door and waited for each of them to climb into the worn leather interior. Violet settled herself in the seat, adjusted her conservative navy-blue traveling gown and tightened the strings of the matching bonnet beneath her chin, but her thoughts remained on her father.

      In the beginning, he had been concerned that an interest in business might not be wise for a young lady, but soon it became apparent she was far more excited about making money than she was about playing the role of wealthy, pampered young lady.

      Then, six months after Griff had died, Mr. Haskell, head of the Boston branch of the company, had suddenly taken ill and been forced to retire. Aunt Harry had nearly suffered an apoplexy when Violet told her she planned to take over Mr. Haskell’s duties, but Violet assured her that she would keep her role completely secret, and eventually her aunt had bent to Violet’s very strong will.

      Mrs. Cummins’s worried voice drew her attention. “Dear me, what has happened to that address?” Her chubby hands dug frantically through her reticule. “I can’t seem to find the paper it was written on.”

      “Number six Portman Square,” Violet told her, knowing the address by heart. It was printed at the top of Rule’s gold-embossed personal stationery, there on each of the very few letters she had received in the past three years.

      Mrs. Cummins rapped on the roof of the carriage. “Driver, did you hear that?”

      “Aye, madam. Number six Portman. ’Tis a bit o’ a ride, but I’ll get ye there safe and sound.”

      “I hope it doesn’t take too long,” Caroline said with a weary sigh. “I am beyond ready to take off my shoes and put my feet up for a while.” Like Violet, Caroline was also nineteen. The two were alike in other ways, as well. Each was a bit too outspoken and unfashionably wont to do as she pleased, but Violet was better at disguising her nature than Caroline, who didn’t much care what other people thought of her.

      She glanced outside the window, checking the angle of the sun. The afternoon was waning and all of them were tired. Echoing Caroline’s sentiments, Violet could hardly wait to reach their destination.

      Her thoughts returned to the man she had wed and a tendril of anger slipped through her. Rule Dewar had the gall to marry her, then completely abandon her. He had given her father his word, had promised that he would provide for her, and though she had plenty of money and servants enough to staff a large part of Boston, it was hardly what her father had intended.

      And it certainly wasn’t what Violet wanted. She wanted a husband who loved her, a man she could count on. She wanted a family and children. She had played the fool once for Rule Dewar. Not again.

      A faint, bitter smile lifted her lips. Rule was about to get his comeuppance. He would retain whatever sum her father had left him, but he was about to lose his half interest in Griffin Manufacturing.

      Violet couldn’t wait to see the look on his handsome face when she told him she was there to obtain an annulment.

      It seemed to take forever, but eventually Violet and her party arrived at Rule’s London residence, a narrow, four-story brick structure with a gabled slate roof. It sat among a row of similar residences, all of them situated around a small park planted with bright spring flowers enclosed by an ornate wrought-iron fence. Clearly, it was a very exclusive neighborhood, befitting Rule’s station as the brother of a duke.

      The thought stirred a trickle of irritation. How ridiculous it was to marry a man for his noble bloodlines. Why, Rule Dewar hadn’t even had the integrity to keep his word!

      Not like Jeffrey, she thought, his handsome image popping into her head. Blond hair and warm brown eyes, a nice, sincere smile. Jeffrey Burnett was twenty-eight, nine years Violet’s senior, a man of some means she had met six months ago at a party given by a friend of Aunt Harriet’s. Jeffrey was an attorney who worked a great deal in the shipping business. Since Griffin shipped armaments around the world, they had something in common.

      They had become friends of a sort, and eventually Violet had confided the truth of her hasty, ill-considered marriage. A few weeks later, Jeffrey had revealed his very strong attraction to her and his interest in making her his wife.

      Of course all of that was moot at the moment.

      First she had to obtain an annulment, which would make possible her second reason for coming on such a long journey.

      She wanted to sell Griffin Manufacturing.

      The driver jumped down and pulled open the carriage door, jarring her back to the present.

      “We’re ’ere, ladies.”

      Mrs. Cummins gave the man one of her imperious looks. “You’ll need to wait, sir, while I make certain this is the correct address. If so, I shall be needing your services again.”

      “Aye, madam.”

      Mrs. Cummins would be leaving Violet and Caroline there, though there was a chance they would be turned away. She had no idea what Rule Dewar would do when she appeared uninvited on his doorstep.

      As they reached the top of the brick stairs, Violet stood anxiously next to Caroline while Mrs. Cummins knocked on the ornate front door. A wispy, gray-haired man, apparently the butler, pulled it open. He looked down his long beak of a nose as if he couldn’t imagine what three women would be doing on his employer’s front porch.

      “May I help you?”

      Violet