The Earl's American Heiress

by Carol Arens

  “I had no wish to marry, but my brother’s death forced it. You are quite correct in that. Even though this is not what I would have chosen—not what she would have chosen, either—be assured that I will honor my wife. In fact, I like your granddaughter quite well.”

  “Yes, indeed. So I witnessed last night.” The old fellow’s smile tipped up. He winked one eye and arched the opposite gray brow. “I’m an astute judge of character, Fencroft. It’s my opinion that all has worked for the good. My sweet girl will be a good match for you. Better even, I think, than Madeline would have been for your brother, may he rest in God’s loving arms.”

  Unless he missed his guess, Oliver was not resting but rather gleefully laughing at what was going on down here.

  He could hear the sound as though his brother stood beside him. In his mind he saw Oliver holding his side in mirth because he could see the very thing that Heath feared.

  That being so, he and Clementine would be an excellent match and he would not be able to resist her.

  “I know this is an unusual situation and if—” Heath had to clear his throat because words seemed to be strangling him “—if I had behaved like a gentleman things would be happening much more to custom. And so I find myself asking the most important question of my life in an unconventional way. Sir, I most humbly request the honor of your granddaughter’s hand in marriage.”

  “Granted,” Macooish stated quickly. “In a sense, I’m not unhappy with the turn of events last night. I know now that you are not cold when it comes to my Clemmie. If I thought you were, I’d not go through with this. At the least, now people will not think that my granddaughter is an object of barter.”

  Others might not but Clementine certainly did.

  “No, but they will think she’s been compromised.”

  “Not that so much as desired—as she should be.”

  It was the truth. He might as well face it. He had desired her—had cast away good sense because he had.

  “I give my blessing to your union. Good day, son.” James Macooish grinned, turned with a sharp half salute and went back inside.

  Good, then, Heath thought as he walked the path back toward the townhome. That was one issue resolved.

  Still, he worried about Miss Macooish’s acceptance of the inevitable marriage. Would she refuse even though Lady Guthrie decreed that she would wed?

  Clementine was an American and not as likely to be as influenced by the duchess’s command as one of the daughters of the aristocracy would be.

  Perhaps he ought to make some grand romantic gesture to ensure she did not refuse. Then again, that might be the very last thing he ought to do.

  A merely friendly gesture, then? An olive branch.

  A quick movement on the low stone wall of the patio caught his attention.

  Victor, a sunbeam catching and reflecting in his blond hair, clambered over. Hopping down, he then ran headlong at Heath and caught him about the thighs.

  He swung his nephew up and around, enjoying the joyful squeal Victor made.

  “Did you eat a horse? You feel heavier than you did yesterday.”

  “Noooo! I like horsies. Well, not to eat, though.” Victor latched his arms about Heath’s neck. “Mother says I can be witness for you at the wedding since Uncle Oliver is in Heaven and I’m next to be earl.”

  “I can’t think of anyone I would want more.” For his witness and his heir.

  Heath stepped over the wall, coming face-to-face with his sister. She wagged a newspaper at him.

  “That horrid Abductor!” Her cheeks pulsed pink but her mouth was pinched and pale. “He has kidnapped another child. Stolen the baby right out of his screaming mother’s arms.”

  Yes, he had done that and was proud to have done so, even though the act would be reported as an evil deed. No doubt good folks were bemoaning the mother’s fate, not realizing that she and her child were safe.

  “I’m sure justice will be served,” he said, setting Victor down. The boy promptly scampered after a squirrel chattering in a tree on the far side of the patio.

  Heath only hoped it would be done to Garrett Slademore.

  “They are searching the river for the poor woman’s body,” his sister whispered. Victor was beyond hearing range, but only barely. “The reason the two guards did not rescue the infant is because they feared the woman meant to do herself harm. So they followed her instead.”

  “It seems to me that they ought to have split up. One of them could’ve rescued the child and the other, the mother.”

  “And face the cutthroat alone?”

  “The guard was armed. I think he was safe enough.”

  “What makes you say so? I’m certain Lord Slademore has stated his guards are not armed, for the sake of a shot going awry when the children are so close by.”

  “I don’t know what I can do about it in any case, sister.” He sounded pathetic in saying so, but he’d revealed too much in mentioning the weapon and needed to cover for it.

  “You can make sure your American goes through with the marriage so we have the funds to keep our people from the fate of that unfortunate woman.”

  Olivia snapped the newspaper down on the patio table. Apparently by slapping the table she was demonstrating what she would like to do to the Abductor. She stomped toward the open parlor door.

  “I’ll do what I can, and Olivia?” His sister spun about. “My American has a name. She’s called Clementine, and she has given up a great deal to come here. Please keep that in mind.”

  As he would. The trouble was, keeping it in mind opened the door to his heart more than a crack. If he was not careful she would walk right in, set up housekeeping and capture his affections more completely than Willa ever had.

  An open heart might lead to secrets learned.

  Chapter Five

  Clementine sat on a stool, watching in the mirror while her maid thrust a pin in the coil of hair she had just placed in a stylish whirl on top of her head.

  For mercy’s sake, she was only going for a stroll to try to settle her nerves from the knot she had done herself up in.

  Back in Los Angeles a walk in the sunshine never failed to relax her. Surely a stroll in Mayfair would accomplish the same thing.

  “While I do thank you for your effort, Trudy, you needn’t go to the trouble. I’m only taking the air.” She gave her servant a smile to reassure the woman she meant no criticism of her handiwork. “Besides, I am simply going to cover it with a hat.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Trudy studied her handiwork, clearly wanting to add more curls. With a subtle shake of her head she pinned the hat to the coif. “I’ll just get my coat.”

  “Don’t bother yourself. I’ll be fine on my own.”

  “But, Miss Macooish—”

  Perhaps a woman in her position was not allowed to take a simple stroll unaccompanied.

  No matter, life would not fall to pieces if she did.

  “Take an hour to yourself, Trudy,” she said and hurried out of the bedroom, down the stairs and out into the open air.

  The first thing she noticed upon going down the steps was that the sun was not warm upon her shoulders. The next was the noise.

  The grind of dozens of wagon wheels on stone, the shout of drivers and the call of vendors selling their wares did not bode well for a bit of quiet contemplation.

  But the park was only across the street. Surely it would prove to be more tranquil.

  Moments later she padded along a wide pathway. Tall, ancient-looking trees growing along each side of the path formed a canopy, the leaves only beginning to hint at the fall beauty to come.

  In itself the setting might have been one of the most tranquil she had ever walked. Creative words to express the natural beauty ought to be overflowing her mind.

  But the path was also crowded with people walking in b
oth directions.

  They laughed merrily, chatted gaily—and stared at her!

  It was impossible to know if people looked at her because she was a gauche American heiress come to ruin polite society, or if it was because gossip had spread of her disgrace in the duchess’s garden.

  Either way, it was disconcerting.

  Her maid had tried to dissuade her from venturing out alone, and now, feeling eyes on her back, imagining what whispers behind hands were saying, she felt she ought to have perhaps stayed in her bedroom.

  But honestly, how could she have guessed that a simple walk in the sunshine would cause a scene.

  If a potential countess went out walking back home, it would only raise mild interest. At the moment she felt quite on display.

  There was only one thing to do, other than flee back to the apartment—which she was not going to do—and that was to draw upon her cousin’s sense of adventure.

  Madeline would not feel a thorn in society’s side. No, her cousin would breeze through the park and not return until she had won the affection of everyone who crossed her path.

  “I’m going no farther than the garden from now on,” she muttered, because in the end she was nothing like Madeline and could not pretend she was.

  “If I may say so, Miss Macooish, you are doing admirably. A born and bred peer could not keep her emotions disguised half as well.”

  She started at the voice. How long had the man been walking beside her without her noticing?

  “Good morning, Lord Fencroft.” For the sake of politeness she ought to add how lovely it was to see him. But it was stressful more than lovely.

  How did one deal with a man who went from mysterious friend, to betrayer, to presumed fiancé, in the space of a moment? Certainly not with a fluttering heart!

  What was wrong with her?

  And now people were openly frowning.

  “I assume I am not to take an honest walk in the park unescorted,” she muttered.

  “It is frowned upon.” His mouth tugged up, but only on one side.

  “I think you are enjoying my embarrassment.”

  Why did his smile have to be so appealing—make her want to return it?

  It was only with the greatest effort that she did not. And truthfully, it was a relief to have him walking beside her even if the heat of censure from passersby was increasing.

  “I’m enjoying their outrage.”

  That was not the answer she expected to hear. The man was part and parcel of them, after all.

  “You do not feel it is a slap in the face of decency for a woman to walk in the park alone?”

  “Not decency, but perhaps safety.”

  “It’s a lucky thing you came upon me, then. One can never tell when a ruffian will pop out from behind a tree.”

  “Not as lucky as you might hope, Miss Macooish.”

  Did she detect a slight tone of resentment when he pronounced her name? As if he resented the fact that she had not used it upon their first encounter—the one in which she saved his life?

  “Perhaps you are right, Lord Fencroft.”

  “You see all these raised brows?”

  How could she not—in fact she could not help sending a superior gesture back at the pinch-faced matron passing by on a gentleman’s arm.

  “Those scowls aren’t because you are walking alone.” He smiled at her, winked as if they were on some grand lark. “It’s because you are walking with me.”

  “Because you seduce strangers in duchesses’ gardens?”

  “Because for an unmarried woman, walking in public with a man is worse than walking alone.”

  “I ought to go home.”

  “I’ll escort you.”

  “Across the Atlantic?”

  All of a sudden his expression sobered. It must have occurred to him that if she did his family would be left destitute.

  “If that is what it would take to win you, then yes.”

  What a romantic statement that would have been had it come from his heart and not his bank account.

  “I’ve asked your grandfather for your hand.” He stopped dead in the path. People flowed around them as if they were a boulder in a stream.

  His blue-green-eyed gaze all but swallowed her up. She had to curl her fingers into her fists to keep from losing herself in it.

  “That’s grand, my lord,” she answered. “But you have yet to ask mine.”

  He blinked, opened his mouth and closed it again before remaining silent for a full thirty seconds.

  Honestly, he ought to have something to say to that. She was certainly not going to help him by speaking first.

  Suddenly, for no good reason one side of his mouth twitched as if he were trying to repress a grin.

  Well, then. She spun about and walked back toward the apartment alone.

  Which, apparently, was less of a sin than walking with him.

  * * *

  By afternoon, heavy clouds were sweeping over Mayfair.

  Grandfather had gone to some gentlemen’s club to discuss business with Lord Guthrie, which left her on her own with nothing to do but listen to the clock tick.

  She could summon a carriage and go shopping. Bond Street might have a pretty hat or dress to distract her—if she was one to enjoy such a pursuit, which she was not.

  Even Madeline had not been able to convince her that shopping was a fulfilling pastime and her cousin was nothing if not persuasive.

  Besides, it was starting to rain. The thought of curling up in a chair beside the window with a book was far more appealing.

  She picked up a blanket, swirled it about her shoulders and then sat down in the chair.

  Rain tapping on the window sounded soothing, and the blanket felt like a warm hug. She picked up her new copy of A Tale of Two Cities and let it lie open on her lap.

  In the moment, with everything so soft and lovely, her mind wandered, drifting of its own accord to something that occupied too much of her attention.

  The kiss that never quite happened. It seemed like it had for all that Mr. Cavill’s lips never actually touched hers. But intimacy had been there in his eyes—the desire to share something forbidden with her, the gentle pressure of his fingers on the back of her neck...

  “Lord Fencroft is in the parlor, Miss Macooish,” the butler announced, standing at attention in the doorway. When had he rapped on the door? Probably in the instant she indulged in the unfulfilled and imaginary kiss.

  “Shall I tell him you are at home?”

  “Here I am, so I suppose you must.” Odd, how she wanted to see him and not see him in equal measure.

  All she could hope for in the moment was that the flush would fade from her cheeks before she entered the parlor.

  “If I might point out, miss, one can be present without being at home to receive callers.”

  “Thank you, Bowmeyer. You may inform the earl I will be down in a moment. And please inform the kitchen there will be two of us for tea.”

  Bowmeyer presented a polite half bow in acknowledgment and then went to do her bidding.

  Clementine stood and squared her shoulders. Clearly the earl was here to propose and there was nothing she could do but accept. No one would be better off if she refused. And in the pit of her heart, there was a quiver that suggested she might do worse than marry Heath Cavill.

  Which was not happy news since good judgment suggested that he might turn out to be a man she could not respect.

  Did he often accost women he didn’t know? Although, to say that he accosted her would not quite be the truth.

  Crossing the house and entering the parlor, she recognized that she had behaved with abandon in Lady Guthrie’s garden. She could not put the blame completely on Fencroft’s shoulders.

  No, and now coming upon him standing on the exact c
enter of the rug, hands behind his back and a nervous smile on his handsome face—well, it did occur to her that it was a shame about that kiss being cut short.

  “Good day, Miss Macooish,” he said. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

  She nodded. “Good day.”

  “I’ve come to...” His voice trailed off as he seemed to be searching his mind for what it was.

  Propose, she wanted to prompt but instead said, “Would you like to sit down, Lord Fencroft? Tea is on the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  She settled on the divan, spreading her skirt to show off the sweep of a satin ribbon.

  He sat down on the chair straight across, drumming his fingers on his knees. She hadn’t noticed how masculine his fingers looked, quite unlike the smooth, pale skin many gentlemen had.

  No doubt Grandfather ought to be in attendance for this meeting. A chaperone was certainly called for.

  In the end, what did proper form matter really, since in a few more minutes she and the earl would be engaged?

  A beam of sunlight broke through the clouds and streamed through the window, igniting rich brown highlights in his dark hair. At least her future husband was handsome—uncommonly so. There was something about his eyes—they gazed out from under his brows in an intriguing mixture of sobriety and humor.

  And then there was his smile... Well, she did not dare look at that overlong.

  “It’s a bit late, but I do owe you an apology.” He glanced away and then back again.

  The tea cart, with its one warped wheel, thumped down the hallway, clattering the china.

  “As I recall, Your Lordship, I share half of the blame for what happened in Lady Guthrie’s garden.”

  A footman placed the cart between Clementine and the earl and then went to stand beside the door in case he was needed.