The Maiden Bride

THE MAIDEN BRIDE

Regency Fantasy Romance

CONSTANCE KENT

Copyright 2017 Constance Kent

Writewood Creations Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-988003-55-9

All rights reserved.

This publication remains the copyrighted property

of the author and may not be redistributed for commercial

or non-commercial purposes.

Cover Images by DreamwalkerT/tomertu

Cover design by Writewood Creations/Canva

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

From the Publisher

THE MAIDEN BRIDE

About the Author

Just for You

From the Publisher

My Guilty Pleasure novels are standalone historical romances of emotionally-charged forbidden love. The Maiden Bride is set in 1800 Regency England. A blood oath forged eight hundred years ago promised Helen Stark to Lord Weathersky Endicott in marriage from the day she was born. But Weathersky has other ideas—and a secret power. Eight centuries of supernatural rule will not be easy to overthrow.

Books in this series

The Tudor Prince

The Pirate Lord

The Dark Regent

The Lovers Trilogy

THE MAIDEN BRIDE

The world is full of magic things,

patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

W B Yeats

Chapter One

Spring 1800 ~ Oxfordshire, England

THE STARK sisters felt they had done all they could for their late cousin’s child. When Helen Stark’s nineteenth birthday passed with no offer of marriage from the young men of their acquaintance, they were forced to surrender the girl to Cragmoore Castle where she would be presented to Weathersky Endicott as his bride.

As spinster ladies, Annabelle and Jane had become keepers of the family lore and knew everything there was to know about the Stark-Endicott history. Nevertheless, they had done their due diligence, writing every member of the Stark clan first. As the weeks passed and no one took up poor Helen’s cause, marriage to Weathersky Endicott emerged as the only path left to her.

Indeed, the young man had no choice in the matter either. No Endicott bachelor would dare refuse a Stark maid.

Nor can Helen dare refuse Lord Endicott, Jane had said. With no prospects or inheritance this fellow is our young cousin’s only hope for a home of her own.

Of all the Endicott clan, the least was known about Weathersky. He was twenty-seven, and despite having come into his fortune six years prior, he had not married. The young man was a misanthrope, repelling intimacy from his family as well as from outsiders. He was rumored to be strikingly handsome, accomplished—even civil when one got to know him, though few did.

Helen could have escaped this fate if she’d had but one suitor, Annabelle mused. Still, we mustn’t think the worst. Above all, we must not jump to conclusions.

It was difficult not to, knowing Weathersky’s aversion to human companionship and the strange oath that had sealed the young man’s fate the day Helen was born.

According to family legend, eight hundred years ago, an alliance was forged between a poor farmer called Tomas Stark and an exiled warrior prince by the name of Idris Endicott. The reasons for the alliance were lost in the mists of time, but the two men had taken an oath that would bind their families together through marriage.

Endicott men selected Stark women for their brides and Stark fathers willingly gave up their daughters to the shadowy clan. Over time, the poor Stark family grew prosperous, though it was not known by what means. It was whispered that the sacrifice of a Stark maiden had something to do with the vertical rise in the family’s fortunes.

Jane and Annabelle consoled themselves that Weathersky Endicott was more likely in need of a secretary than a virgin sacrifice. They’d heard his library was vast and he was deep in the study of Roman history.

Goodness, Jane said, examining the family tree. Helen is the last.

That cannot be, said Annabelle bending over her shoulder.

"It is. Look. Helen Stark, female – born on the twenty-second of February, 1781. There are no other female births recorded in the Stark line. Oh my stars—Weathersky is also the last Endicott male! Though to be sure it is harder to keep accurate records of that branch of the family, but by all accounts, he is the youngest and there are no more recorded births after his."

Sister, I wonder what would happen if the oath was ever broken?

Jane puzzled over the yellowed map of their conjoined families. I cannot begin to imagine. If only we knew the reason for the agreement in the first place.

Likely to do with the securing of land and titles and such. Annabelle sighed. One cannot expect a young man in this age of business to marry for anything but investment. The way they moon over books and wear their hair.... She let the unhappy observation finish itself.

Youth are far more self-absorbed than they were in our day.

Do you think Weathersky will follow the old ways? The oath was made almost a thousand years ago. No one has tested its power by breaking it. Oh my, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at that prospect! This offer of marriage was a godsend. Helen has no fortune. The lands are entailed away, and it must be said, sister—the girl is not a beauty.

Their cousin’s child was sensible, good-humored, and despite her lack of refinement, Helen was pleasant company. But she was not beautiful and beauty was essential if a penniless young woman hoped to make a good match.

Annabelle blamed Helen’s mother for the girl’s Grecian nose and her father for her wide blue eyes. Wide blue eyes were a trait of the Starks but Helen’s were unfashionably wide. Overall, her features were entirely too lush to be genteel.

But her complexion is splendid. She has not the ruddiness of other girls who spend far too much time out of doors. Such lovely honey gold glints in her hair; they quite rescue the color from being too bland.

Though it is bland to be sure—and such a lot of it curling every which way. Your example rather proves the rule, sister. Our dear Helen has not out-grown her ugly duckling stage. It is possible she never will. I only hope Weathersky treasures her for her other qualities as we have done.

I only hope Helen is able to hold her own in that strange family, Annabelle said glumly. Stark brides have a habit of disappearing soon after the wedding.

§

HELEN TRAVELED in driving rain and lightning that flashed so brightly it blinded, but despite this, she continually stuck her head out of the window to examine the passing landscape. The horses were spooked by the storm, almost toppling the coach at one point. The road was terrible. The journey was uncomfortable. And Helen Stark could not be happier.

Her trunks had been packed and sent on ahead to Oxford Town where they were to be picked up by Mr. Draper, a man in the employ of Endicott, and delivered to Cragmoore Castle. So it was all settled then. This was truly happening to her of all people!

She leaned against the hard seatback and tried to repair the damage done to her hair, which had been carefully styled by Aunt Jane. She needed all the help she could get. Her dress was a hand-me-down from a charitable relative and had been altered for traveling and any number of outdoor activities. Endicott would not expect his bride-to-be to wear fashionable gowns. He would, however, expect her to have a neat appearance.

Helen knew very little about her new residence or what her position would be in the house prior to the wedding. She knew even less about her groom, Weathersky Endicott. Jane and Annabelle could not be faulted for failing to make further enquiries before agreeing to the betrothal. They had a small allowance that would not stretch to the maintenance of three ladies. Her own yearly income was tiny, her father being the unlucky third son in a large family. The Stark money had run out years before and her mother had come into marriage with a small dowry. Her parents had married for love it was often said.

Helen hoped she would never make that mistake. An arranged marriage was far more preferable. If she was forced to make her own decision, Helen imagined she would choose a sensible man with an income who valued her for her abilities, and it was a well-known fact that such men simply did not exist. Fortunately for her, she would not have to depend on love or luck for her security.

Weathersky Endicott would have his faults to be sure, but his large house and good fortune would make up the difference. A poor man had no such leeway. A poor man had to be wonderful in all that he said and did. As did a poor girl, thought Helen ruefully.

The coach came to a halt.

She dared to stick her head out again and was instantly drenched. Lightning flashed across the sky followed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder. Driver, is there a problem?

There was silence from the man. Helen’s pulse jumped. An unaccountably rude response to a civil question. She waited with increasing uneasiness and then the driver flung open her door.

Helen shrank back against the seat. What is it, sir? What has happened?

His face was in shadow. His oilcloth cloak was streaming. Cragmoore Castle is directly ahead. There is only a small bridge to cross as the Castle is surrounded on all sides by a lake. I’ll go no further. I am sorry, miss.

Nonsense—you must take me to the door. My aunts have paid you for the journey.

She clearly lacked authority for Helen could not compel the man to move another step. He stood aside and offered his hand to help her from the carriage.

Your aunts should have explained the situation to you. No driver will approach Cragmoore Castle. I was the only driver who would take you as far as this. Forgive me, Miss Stark. Please tell Lord Endicott I mean no disrespect.

Helen took his hand and allowed him to help her out of the dry comfort of the coach and into the driving rainstorm.

Please miss. I beg of you. Tell him.

There was another terrifying flash of lightning, revealing the man’s face to her. He was an ordinary looking man who appeared to be absolutely petrified of something directly ahead. Helen lifted her hood over her hair and tried to see through the driving rain the cause of his fear.

Cragmoore Castle loomed bold and gleaming in the distance. The coach had stopped at a stone bridge guarded by a gatehouse on the opposite shore. After that, the cobbled drive continued on a distance ending at the magnificent entrance of Cragmoore Castle. Helen counted five chimneys and an abundance of mullioned windows.

As the driver said, the house itself was in the center of a silver lake. It was difficult to appreciate the serenity of such a place in the torrential downpour. A thick fringe of forest banded the island estate; its trees were bending in the wind.

In a third blinding flash of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder, she saw the indistinct silhouette of a man on the crenulated roof of the gatehouse. His gaze seemed fixed on the coach. He wore no cloak or head covering. Was he the groundskeeper? Just as she was about to call up to him, the man vanished.

Helen turned back to the driver only to find he had already jumped back in his seat and taken hold of the reins.

I must away! I must away and may God have mercy on your soul!

This last was caught by the wind causing Helen to be not at all certain she had heard him correctly. She turned back to face Cragmoore Castle. The remaining distance was not too great. The ancient stone bridge was an odd sort of barrier. Helen had the strangest feeling about it, that if she set foot on it, she would be fixed forever within the confines of the estate.

She would have laughed at her fanciful thinking if she had not been so unnerved by the driver’s parting remarks. She peered up at the turret for the man, sensing he was there waiting for her to approach. The feeling of being watched made her hesitate. Helen did not appreciate this sneaking observation.

Is someone there? Show yourself!

The rain streamed down. Helen strained to hear an answer over the rising wind but no reply came. Whoever he was, he had gone.

Regardless of the vision of mysterious men in dark cloaks, it was silly to stand there in the driving rain when there was shelter to be had under the gatehouse arch. Helen took a step onto the bridge and felt a curious cool danger dance against her cheek.

Helen Stark was not given to imagination. The aunts did not encourage it in her youth and her nature was not disposed to thinking the worst. She did not have the luxury of imagining evil around every corner. She reminded herself that turning back meant giving in to disrepute and death. She had not enough talent, beauty or money to save her from the street. Her only equity in life was her family name and an ancient oath that bound her to Weathersky Endicott.

She had not even the luxury of a romantic imagination to believe that her betrothed would be anything but an utter bore.

Helen boldly strode across the bridge and stopped under the gatehouse. She peered into the black depths above. The original function of the stone keep was defence but if memory served, the Castle had ceased to be a fortified structure over two hundred years ago.

There was a legend or myth surrounding the Endicott family, Helen recalled, gazing upward, that for the life of her she could not remember. There were rumors of black magic and a curse of some kind, stories she had overheard when her father and mother were still alive.

The drive was wide and cobbled, verged on either side by a deep green lawn. Helen bolted from the gatehouse and dashed through the pelting rain toward Cragmoore Castle, a distance of five hundred yards or so. The Endicott clan had occupied this estate since 1015, though the house was dated from 1300. Aunt Jane and Annabelle could not say where the money had come from to build the Castle. Somehow, the Endicott men had managed to work financial marvels for eight hundred years.

Upon approaching the door, Helen squared her shoulders, prepared to meet whatever came with good cheer. She located the door pull and tugged on it—twice. The wait stretched longer than necessary and Helen began to think they had forgotten about her.

Then the door swung open and she was greeted by an older woman who apologized for the delay. I was in the back of the house and didn’t hear your knock.

I didn’t knock, madam. I rang. My name is Helen Stark. The driver did not like to risk the bridge in this storm. The team was skittish and he thought we would both be pitched over the side. I insisted he leave me at the gatehouse and I walked the rest of the way.

So I see, the woman said unhappily. The hem of your gown is an inch deep in mud. Come in, Miss Stark. Come in. Give me your cloak. Mr. Draper has taken your trunk to your room. I expect you’ll want to change before dinner, she added disapprovingly. I am Mrs. Draper, the housekeeper.

Her cloak was removed and hung in a closet under the stairs. The center hall was spacious and on bright days, she imagined it must be filled with light from so many windows. The furnishings were spare, as one might expect in an entry way, but exquisitely made. Vases of spring flowers stood on dark, gleaming tables, complemented by chairs that were upholstered in vibrant colors. A striking medieval tapestry adorned one wall and a great fire roared on the hearth, warming the ironstone. Altogether lovely, she thought with a happy internal sigh.

I’ll let the family know you have arrived. Please wait here.

Helen would have preferred to be shown to her room so that she could make herself presentable, though her trunk contained little in the way of fashion. There was one fairly new frock that she had been preserving for a special occasion. It was the newest and nicest she owned. She ought not to squander it on a mere introduction.

Mrs. Draper reappeared. Miss Stark, if you please. They are waiting for you in the drawing room. The housekeeper led the way to another splendid room where a great fire was lit.

Five devastatingly beautiful people were positioned like magnificent statues at the hearth fire. Helen sensed, as soon as she entered, that she had interrupted a quarrel.

Chapter Two

MISS HELEN STARK has arrived, madam.

The tallest and most elegant of the three assembled ladies swiveled gracefully to greet Helen. Thank you, Mrs Draper. You may bring in the tea without delay. Miss Stark looks in dire need of a hot drink if she is not to catch a fever. Why she is soaked through!

Yes, madam. The young lady walked from the main road.

In this storm? Outrageous!

The speaker was older than the others in the room. She came toward Helen with outstretched arms, prepared to embrace her. My dear Miss Stark—how wonderful to meet you at last! I am Clytemnestra Endicott and these are my brothers and sisters, Terrance, Bree, Blaise and Hydrus.

Terrance and Hydrus were striking men of contrasting beauty. Terrance had earthy brown hair and dark green eyes and Hydrus was blue-eyed and white blonde hair. The young ladies, Bree and Blaise were just as stunning and statuesque. Bree had the loveliest shade of ash blonde hair that Helen had ever seen. It was almost silver and her eyes were dove-gray. Blaise was a fiery auburn-haired beauty with dark eyes and scarlet lips. A study in contrasts and yet there was a family resemblance in bone structure, voice and gestures.

What marvelous names you all have, Helen said with shy admiration. I am only Helen. Rather an ordinary name compared to yours. She did her best not to ask after Weathersky.

Not ordinary at all. Consider Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand ships, Terrance said with a roguish smile.

Helen laughed nervously. I have not that lady’s beauty, sir. She allowed Clytemnestra to guide her to a chair. I doubt I could launch a punt.

The Endicott siblings exchanged glances and then Bree broke the awkward