On bended knee, p.1
On Bended Knee, page 1
part #6 of Wicked Worthingtons Series
PRAISE FOR THE WICKED WORTHINGTONS SERIES
“A charming and very romantic story with lots of laughs along the way. The ending puts a perfect cap on the story. I look forward to reading more books in this series to see what happens to some of my favorite supporting characters."
—Fresh Fiction
"Ah, l’amour. I adored this story and the wonderful hero and heroine, who shed all their inhibitions and fears in order to go on the most powerful journey they ever embarked on … falling in love."
—Smexy Books
"An exciting and sweet historical love story. It has everything that I look for in a good fairy-tale retelling while also tying back to Bradley’s earlier books. I am really excited to see more of this series, particularly because of the out-of-control but still entertaining Worthington family."
—Feminist Fairy Tale Reviews
"A laugh-out-loud-funny novel from Celeste Bradley, the third in the Wicked Worthingtons series. Lighthearted but with a few profound moments, it is filled with deception, misunderstanding, exaggeration, cross-dressing, and mistaken identity."
—Harlequin Junkie
The Wicked Worthingtons Series
WHEN SHE SAID I DO
AND THEN COMES MARRIAGE
WITH THIS RING
I THEE WED
WEDDED BLISS
On Bended Knee
The Wicked Worthingtons Series
New York Times Bestselling Author
CELESTE BRADLEY
On Bended Knee Copyright © 2019 by Celeste Bradley.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover photography by Celeste Bradley
Cover design by Charles M. Fitch
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Celeste Bradley
Visit my website at www.CelesteBradley.com
Published in the United States of America
First Publication: Feb 2019
This book is dedicated to all those who struggle
with the lifelong aftereffects of trauma.
Please be strong.
You are more than just your shadows.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Reviews
About the Author
Acknowledgments
I could not have written this book without the help of several marvelous people, some of whom are old friends and some I haven't met yet.
For her unfailing support and gentle prodding for 40 years, I thank Darbi Gill.
For her sharp eyes and literary mind, I thank my secret weapon, Robyn Holiday.
For his steadfast love, his unwavering belief in me and his highly overqualified tech support, I thank the Geek God, Charlie Fitch.
For their lifelong patience and attention while I talk endlessly about writing, I thank Thing One and Thing Two. I love my girls more than life.
For their loyalty and tireless effort, I thank the loveliest ladies ever, my Chatelaines.
For her delicious Instagram feed (@life_in_swaledale) that made me feel like I know Swaledale and Yorkshire far better than I actually do, I have to thank the real Jenni Gosling, whose images of her shepherdess life inspired so much within this book, including my favorite character, Topknot. Jenni, I wrote you a book for a wedding present! I hope I meet you both someday.
Prologue
PREVIOUSLY, REGARDING THE WICKED WORTHINGTONS
(AS OVERHEARD IN A FINE BALLROOM IN LONDON)…
THOSE DEPLORABLE WORTHINGTONS ARE not the sort of family a respectable person should associate with," the first lady whispered from behind the cover of her painted silk fan, "unless of course, one is terribly interesting or innovative — or perhaps inclined to align oneself to a family who have the mercurial Prince Regent's respect."
The lady's companion leaned forward to take on her conspiratorial whisper. "And they make such interesting party guests — as long as one has the resources to make a few minor repairs after the festivities. Wherever they go and whomever they associate with, fascinating things happen that keep London Society thrillingly agog — even though, mind you, we don't truly approve of such goings on."
"Agreed." Lady First smiled knowingly. "Just look at the oldest daughter, Calliope, who married that strange recluse in the Cotswolds! Rumor has it that there was a swordfight — or was it a duel? — and that Sir Lawrence is a scarred and frightening fellow indeed. Then again, I've also heard that he is wealthy as a lord and keeps poisonous snakes in his wine cellar, so there is simply no trusting in rumor."
Lady Second whipped open her carved ivory fan with the dexterity of long practice to shield her half of the conversation from the rest of the ballroom. "It is those twin brothers, Castor and Pollux Worthington, who are the real scandal! Do you recall when they burned down that brothel fighting over a stunning widow, Miranda Something-or-other? I heard the battle was so fierce that one brother was driven right out of London by the other!"
A bit of happily scandalized head-shaking ensued.
Lady First looked smug. "Oh, yes. Of course, things calmed down a great deal once Elektra Worthington wed that nice Lord Aaron Arbogast. No one ever really believed those terrible things about him, not really. Those ten years he spent in the tropics were to learn estate management, not because of some silly public shunning. Such a fine fellow now! He is likely to become the Earl of Arbodean very soon. With all that wealth and power soon to be under his control, it isn't wise to repeat any of that deliciously wicked history, don't you agree?"
Lady Second, flustered at being caught criticizing a potential duke, grasped at another topic. "Oh, I remember that scientist brother, the one named Orion. The nonsense those Worthingtons named their children!"
The two indulged in a gleeful tsk-tsk before the second lady continued. "It was rumored that Orion Worthington was headed for greatness in the world of scholarly pursuits — that is, until he fell passionately in love with that bluestocking ward of Sir Geoffrey Blayne. I heard that Francesca girl was half-Italian, so who knows what madness she caused in that household? Sir Geoffrey is still locked away in Bedlam, is he not?"
Lady First nodded with a satisfied purr. "Quite so. Then there was that other young lady, a cousin, I believe. An uncommonly pretty girl, that Bliss Worthington. We all thought she was heading toward a very satisfying union with the young Duke of Camberton — until she ran away in the middle of the night and wed his bastard brother instead! Who in their right mind would choose an illegitimate ship captain over a duke? Who were her parents, did we ever learn? Well, no matter. It turns out she was just another mad Worthington after all!"
Lady Second shivered with delicious dismay. "And there is the silent brother, the darkest one, Lysander Worthington, the one who never truly came all the way back from the war. Goodness, I wonder what will become of him?"
Chapter 1
IF THE DEVIL KEPT sheep — and Lysander Worthington, of the London Worthingtons, had no reason to suppose that the devil didn't keep a fiendish herd in some fiery version of the Yorkshire Dales — then the devil would have had Lysander's adversary as his personal pet ram. The creature had surely come straight from hell.
I was only riding through. Just through the blasted village and out again.
It wasn't simply the eerie narrow iris of the ram's eye. All sheep had a similar gaze and Lysander had met a few perfectly angelic woolly creatures in his thirty-one years. It wasn't the ram's multicolored face, splotched with black and white in a highwayman's larcenous mask. Lysander's own mount, his brother's fine riding horse Icarus, had a striking white blaze down his nose, and Icarus was as well behaved as any slightly nervy thoroughbred could be.
Perhaps it was the creature's curling horns that twisted a bit wrong, spiraling straight out from each side of its hellish head like armored corkscrews. The cruel projections had clearly been waxed to a fine shine by the ram's attentive owner. Lysander had a light-headed vision of a scarlet-skinned devil, cooing fondly at his straggle-woolen pet whilst stropping the beast's horns with a polishing cloth.
No matter from where the truculent creature had come, it clearly believed itself the rightful master of this otherwise unremarkable village common. The beast stood stiff-legged and twitchy, aggressively challenging Lysander and his borrowed mount, Icarus. The maddened gaze heated. The hell-spawn ram
Aristocratic Icarus, on the other hand, visibly trembled in terror before the snorting demonic creature bountifully festooned in multicolored festival day ribbons, which twisted and flapped in the afternoon breeze in ludicrous counterpoint to the lethal twisting horns.
Lysander had a single instant to wonder if Icarus, London creature that he was, had ever actually seen a sheep.
The previously amiable horse let out a shrill neigh of panic and performed a gyrating, rearing hop that not only faced the gelding away from the rage-maddened ram, but also aided in putting a nearly instant quarter mile between himself and the nightmarish creature.
Unfortunately, Lysander was not invited on this retreat. The world flipped on its axis and he found himself facedown in the mud with the wind knocked clean from his lungs. Shaken by the fall and his sudden change in stature, he madly scraped the mud from his face and eyes and drew his breath in with a strangled gasp.
Mud. Mud and blood and pain. Thunder.
In time, he would look back to comprehend that the pounding that shook the earth was merely the retreating hoof beats of the fleeing Icarus. Unhappily, in that moment Lysander instead heard the thunder of cannon and storm.
And any moment icy rain would pour from the war-blackened sky and the earth would run with blood.
His heartbeat sped until he could hear nothing but the hammer of his own pulse and the hoarse gasps of his own breath scraping its way out of his throat. There was no village festival, no shattered prize sheep's pen, no gaping crowd of astonished Swaledale farmers around him. There was only the rocky fist of memory, knocking him heedlessly backward in time, flinging him down on a mud-and-blood spattered field of war in Spain.
Thunder. Cannon. Enemy. Battle.
The ram lowered its head and gave a threatening snort, taking up the challenge with vicious glee. Battle indeed, it seemed to say.
To the death, if necessary.
Chapter 2
TWO DAYS EARLIER….
IN A ONCE ELEGANT but now rather dilapidated neighborhood in London there stood a large rambling house composed of soot gray stone and ivy vines. The structure had passed "tattered gentility" several decades back and was well on its way to "ramshackle ruin." Yet like a grubby, much-loved toy, the crumbling structure had a heart and soul that made it almost a member of the family who lived within.
Inside Worthington House, Atalanta Worthington paced the long hallway upstairs. Back and forth, from one end of the worn runner to the other, very slowly. The figured paper on the walls was faded in odd places and there was a patch halfway down that she clearly remembered peeling away, although her brothers insisted she could not remember something she'd done when she was two years old.
If she took normal steps it was seventy-two paces. When she was smaller, it had been hundreds of paces but that was because she'd been climbing around and over and through, a brave adventurer beating her path through a dangerous forest, weaving her way through great teetering towers of books. Thousands of books that had only been a small portion salvaged from the fire that had consumed the once great library at Worthington Manor. If she closed her eyes, Attie could still smell the tinge of smoke that had lingered within the pages and filtered through the air until she had believed that all books smelled like a house afire.
There were no books in the hallway anymore. Attie's sister-in-law Miranda had gently forced the family to clear the stacks away and sort them. At Miranda's tender but steely request, the Worthington brothers Daedalus, Castor and even Lysander, had built bookcases in every room from the floor to the ceiling to contain them all, since the London house had no real library of its own.
It made sense, Attie supposed grudgingly. After all, she'd been trapped beneath book avalanches a few times, and Philpot had taken a fall, at which point the stout housekeeper had declared herself retired from all upper-story chores.
The maze of random and often unsuitable knowledge had been a strange and wonderful playground but Attie reminded herself that she didn't need a playground any longer. She wasn't a child. And being fourteen years of age, she had responsibilities.
Furthermore, the long empty hallway was now a marvelous place in which to practice sequential high-velocity cartwheels.
She reached the end of the hallway and, spinning slowly but precisely, she began to smoothly walk back. She was so good at it now that she could probably balance a book on her head. This was something that Miranda had told her she'd been required to do as a girl. What a silly use for a book! Although Attie supposed if it was a stupid book, like a volume on etiquette, or hairdressing, or the history of puffed sleeves.
The bundle in her arms whimpered and Attie realized that she had stopped still for a moment as she contemplated the many stupid books in the world. Back to carrying! Six-month-old Aurora was so often passed hand-to-hand in the Worthington family that Attie doubted if Aurora's little pink feet would ever touch the floor.
But like the rest of the family, Aurora wasn't at her best today. Attie understood. The house was too hushed, with every sound causing an unearthly echo she would swear had never occurred before. Everyone moved slowly and wearily and far too carefully, strange in a house that had only known heedless, boisterous action for as long as Attie could recall.
Even the tiniest Worthington recognized the discordance. There were some things that only the warm arms of your family could fix, so Attie had swaddled her stout little niece in a cozy shawl and taken her for a long, long walk in the hall.
Aurora made a creaking noise, long and slow like a door with sticky hinges. Attie nodded. "Yes, Aurora. I comprehend."
Attie wouldn't be able to maintain this peace much longer. Aurora was hungry. Since she was still vociferously opposed to solid food, she would be needing her mother quite soon.
Attie eased her embrace to study her niece's blue-green eyes and furrowed, barely-there brows. "Matters certainly would be simpler if you would eat some porridge. Although, I do not blame you for your low opinion of porridge. I commiserate wholeheartedly." Worthingtons didn't use infant speech. That sort of thing was for Other People.
However, Attie's sister-in-law Miranda had been up all night with Attie's mother, Iris Worthington.
Sometimes sharp but mostly dreamy and abstracted, Iris was more beloved family pet than a true maternal figure. Too absentminded and artistic to handle the fundamentals of the real world, Iris was happily kept in abundant paints and long trailing scarves and never permitted to handle money or order cabbages from the grocer.
Of course, that was before.
Attie allowed her thoughts to veer away from the uneasy topic of her mother and return to contemplating the clock standing tall at the far end of the hall. Miranda had only been asleep for a few hours. Attie wanted to keep Aurora soothed a little while longer.
The creaky complaint began to rise in volume. Attie gently jiggled her niece and kissed her silky red-haired crown. "Don't wake everyone, Ginger-biscuit. It isn't as though anyone would actually let you starve."
Attie turned and began to walk toward her brother's suite of rooms. When Miranda had married Cas, instead of Poll, his twin whom she'd been fond of first, Cas and Miranda decided to remain in Worthington House.
Poll had been upset at the loss of Miranda, and in many ways the loss of Cas as well. He'd decided to remove himself from a situation too hurtful and confusing to bear. So Poll took off gallivanting.
At one time, Attie had liked the word "gallivanting." Now she despised it. People who had a family who missed them should never gallivant. It shouldn't be allowed.
Cas, on the other hand, had stoically accepted that Iris, who was already living half in a dream world, would not take it well if both her twin sons left her at the same time. Miranda, who had lacked for family her whole life, was quite happy to move into the bustling, shabby, outrageous Worthington House. Attie couldn't blame her. Anyone sensible could see what a wonderful place Worthington House was.
