Pirate Bride

Chapter 1 -- Vengeance

Chapter 1 

Vengeance

"Bloody newlyweds!" Lord James Pembrooke hissed under his breath, looking around to see if anyone heard. Fists balling up at his sides, hatred exuded from him. With crinkled brow and scrunched eyes, he observed this spectacle of a wedding ball. Controlling his urge to punch the footman who eyed him warily, he instead placed his hand upon the white table cloth, tapping his fingers. The pale-faced footman proceeded to pour Pembrooke's wine, almost missing, his eyes roving back again and again to him. Pembrooke's eye twitched. The red liquid trickled into the sparkling crystal goblet. It would do no good to soil his lace cravat with this poor man's blood.  

He flicked a piece of lint from his coat. Twirling skirts of white, lilac, and petal pinks swished by him as waltzing came to a full swing. All this fuss made him ill. Perfumes filtered the late summer air mixing with flowers and delectable foods. His stomach roiled with want of something else-something much more filling. Jubilant dance partners beamed at one another during this festive occasion. All seemed happy.  

But he was not.  

Lord Pembrooke studied the newlywed couple-Creighton, Lord Huntington, in all his tall, dark, and handsome glory; and his new bride, Miss Carly Blakemore, petite, charming, and wickedly auburn with an attitude to match-graciously accepting congratulations from friends and acquaintances.  

His blood boiled. His own daughter, Margaret, was dead. All at the hands of these two persons-Lord and Lady Huntington-the happy couple! It disgusted him. How wretched he had become with the ensuing rumors that had followed Lady Margaret's demise and that of his wife's. It made him ill to think that he had been reduced to such gossip. Suicide? Murder? It was not to be endured! His mind ticked away, his eyes squinting. Somehow he would have his revenge. A smiled twitched at the corners of his lips just thinking about it. He would be ever so gratified by the Huntington's suffering.  

His bloodshot eyes rested upon the Marquis of Latham and his lovely partner. The marquis was deep in conversation, his face glowing with adoration. Pulling at his tight cravat, Pembrooke thought it obvious the stupid man was in love. Gripping his goblet, controlling his urge to break it, he drank down his disgust. He pulled at his coat, allowing his eyes to rove over the beauty, her fitted bodice, her silken black hair; his mind engaged ill thoughts. She was none other than the new bride's sister. Exquisite or not, she was the enemy. Broiling with anger, he wiped at his perspiring brow with a handkerchief, pulling again at his collar. His lips pressed tight turning pale. These two conniving gold-diggers had hit their marks quite well in the earl and marquis. What idiots to not see through these young girls' plans. Regardless of his own daughter's plans to marry Lord Huntington, she had been peerage and had a substantial dowry that would have accounted for such a good match, at the very least. These servants had nothing to their names. Pompous, penniless upstarts!  

If only Mr. Stone had not died. His business partner had been vastly capable; only, he had been caught and shot, no less. The thought of being discovered by the authorities had come too close to a reality. Heaving a sigh of relief, Pembrooke combed his hand over his bald spot. Surely, Mr. Stone would have bargained for his life, but only by taking Pembrooke down with him. Thank heaven he was dead! All the evil intents of his heart had been mirrored and carried out by him. It was a pity. Of course, had he lived to be imprisoned, Pembrooke would have had to arrange for a little incident to occur within the dank walls of cells ensuring the safety of his unsavory secrets. There was no reason he should have to suffer exposure simply because his partner had slipped up. Humph! His ingenious plan for Mr. Stone to kidnap and dispose of the lovely Miss Blakemore had failed. Miserably! Looking right and left, as if others were privy to his imaginings, he admonished himself, chuckling. Obviously, no one knew of his involvement for he always dealt under the table. Now only he knew of his involvement.