by Valerie King
“I have a proper understanding,” he responded coolly. “And I am not mad. If you want my fortune, this is my price—to be brought into your society and to attend the harvest ball with you—and your father, of course.”
“There are but a handful of Chilchester families who receive such an invitation. The Pipers never have, not in all these years.”
“But I know how intimately you are connected to all the families in the vicinity. From the first of my acquaintance with you, I understood that fact quite to perfection. Now, you must decide how desperately you want me—or, rather, my fortune. That, my dear, is the price.”
A smiled flickered over his lips, reaching to his eyes, which laughed merrily at her expense. Why shouldn’t he laugh at her? she thought gloomily. She had been brought low by events of the past few days, lower than she had ever imagined possible. She had reviewed all the gentlemen to whom she could have applied to relieve her father of his sudden financial embarrassments. Two of her suitors would have seen to the matter quite nicely, except how could she explain that she had never meant to choose a husband in the context of a marriage of convenience? Such a notion had always been of the most abhorrent to her.
Now her situation was quite different. Certainly she had her dowry, a quite respectable eight thousand pounds, but this paled in comparison to her papa’s debts. If he did not receive relief quite soon, involving a figure four times that amount, Fairlight Manor would be sold at auction to pay his outrageous gaming debts, acquired only recently in a fortnight’s jaunt to Brighton.
She still could not credit it was true. The Pipers were all but ruined. All her dreams were gone, vanished in a roll of the dice. How had this happened to her?
She gave herself a shake. These hopeless ruminations would not do in the least. Better to tend to the matter at hand. “So what you are saying is that I am to bring you into fashion, culminating in an invitation for both of us to attend the harvest ball, along with my father? Have I understood you correctly?”
“Precisely. But, come. Do not be so downcast, Miss Piper. Surely you are made of sterner stuff. I believe with a little effort you could achieve these desired objects. You must have a little more confidence in your abilities.”
At that, she ground her teeth. “I have sufficient confidence in many things, but there is an old proverb about a sow’s ear which troubles me greatly at present.”
He clucked his tongue. “My dear, if you wish to win my heart, or at least my pocketbook, you ought to refrain from insulting me.”
“Then I would beg you not to be so provoking.”
He nodded. “Very well. I shall make such an attempt for your sake.”
“Thank you for at least that much, Sir Roger.”
He smiled and appeared quite mischievous, an expression she found rather appealing. “There, you see,” he said, “we shall do famously. We have already had our first quarrel and survived it quite nicely.”
“Bring you into fashion,” she murmured, trying not to imagine just how difficult, how impossible, such a task would likely prove. “Very well, I shall try.”
He leaned forward slightly and in a low voice said, “If you succeed, Miss Piper, I believe you would find me an agreeable husband.”
Something in his expression, in the piercing quality suddenly present in his blue eyes, diverted her thoughts down a different path altogether. He would be her husband, and she his wife. She would be the mother of his children and all that such an arrangement entailed.
A new blush made its way up her cheeks, only this time she was not so much embarrassed as quite stunned by the thought that such a man, deeply sun bronzed from having
resided in India for over fifteen years, broad of shoulder and chest and in every sense a quite physically powerful man, would by her own permission be granted command of her. Her lips parted and she sucked in a shocked stream of air. How could she ever allow this?
She lifted both hands, a certain panic flooding her. “Forget that I have even broached the subject of matrimony with you, Sir Roger,” she said suddenly. She turned away from him abruptly, intending to leave. “I never should have come. What was I thinking? There must be another way. Something. Anything.”
As she moved away from him, she did not get far, for he caught her arm swiftly in a powerful clasp, at the same time rising to his full height. “Miss Piper, wait,” he said sharply. “I beg you will not run from me. I am no monster, as you seem to believe.”
You might as well be, she thought, checking the words before they spilled past her lips.
“Only tell me what has suddenly overset you,” he added.
She turned back to him. “How can I marry you?” she said. “When you are . . . you are a . . . a Scotsman? Every feeling must be offended. Do you not see as much?”
He still had strong hold of her arm. “That is not what you were thinking just now. I would wager my fortune it was not. Tell me the truth. Why did you suddenly take fright when before you were as bold as Hercules accomplishing one of his twelve labors?”
How could she tell him? “I . . . I did not think, I did not realize until just this moment, what marrying you would . . . would involve.”
A slow smile overspread his lips. “That is what I thought,” he said softly. “But you are mistaken in thinking you would dislike it.”
Before she knew what was happening, he released her arm, only to catch her up in a powerful embrace. She could not even breathe. She knew what he was about to do and a protest did rise to her lips, but before she could utter the words, his lips were upon hers. She had thought she would dislike it immensely, for he was brutish in so many ways, but there was nothing sinister about the soft feel of his lips on hers, a sensation which gave her pause.
Perhaps in this moment curiosity prevailed for she allowed the kiss to continue. Could she bear the touch of a man—for she could hardly call a Scotsman a gentleman—so decidedly beneath her notice?
At first, she appraised the gentle assault in a purely objective manner: arms like a vice; lips soft, even a little moist; a tender search over hers as though he was asking a question. What question? Could she tumble in love with a Scotsman, perhaps? Never, of course. Only why could she no longer frame her thoughts so clearly? Why was she coming to feel so oddly disconnected from herself?
He drew her to himself more closely still, but how was that possible, and why were her hands drifting over his shoulders—and what was this sigh that seemed to pass through her entire being like a welcome summer breeze?
Madeline had never been kissed before, not once in her six and twenty years. She had always supposed that adjusting to it would require a great deal of time and effort. However, she found the current experience so uniquely pleasurable that there drifted through her presently lethargic mind the thought that she could remain within the circle of Sir Roger’s arms forever.
When he drew back, the cloud of unexpected desire which had held her captive disappeared like a morning mist when the sun rises high in the sky. She blinked and saw that there was laughter in his eyes and a smirk on his lips.
“Oh, what a wretch you are,” she said indignantly.
“As I told you before, Miss Piper, you are mistaken in thinking you would dislike being my wife.”
“I think you a horrid beast,” she retorted, scowling at him. “And now, I must away. I must tell Papa that your intention is to court me with the understanding that should I succeed in bringing you into fashion as well as acquiring invitations to the harvest ball, that you would then be willing to marry me and to discharge the sum of his debts. Have I the right of it?’”
“Precisely.”
“Good day, then,” she returned crisply. With that, she whirled about purposefully on her heel and began a quick march toward the nearest turret so that she could make good her escape. She could not bear the thought that he might attempt to kiss her again, for there had been nothing so lowering in her entire exchange with Sir Roger than the fact that she had enjoyed his kisse
s quite against her will. Very lowering, indeed.
***
Chapter Two
As soon as Madeline began her trek back to Fairlight Manor—a very short two miles from Pelworthy Castle—and was certain Sir Roger could not hear her, she let out a low, frustrated growl. Quite unladylike, but she felt certain the nearby robins and titmice would not expose her. She could not remember having been more frustrated in her entire existence than in this moment, when the course of her life had been so completely disrupted—first by her father and his newly acquired vice, and now by Sir Roger, who was refusing obstinately to cooperate.
She had been so certain he would readily embrace the notion of a forthcoming marriage with her it had never once occurred to her he might not be completely delighted with the idea. Instead, he had been beastly from beginning to end, even going so far as to take her in his arms and force a most unwelcome kiss on her.
She felt her cheeks blush anew, not at the memory of the kiss but at how much she had actually enjoyed it. She pressed her hands to her cheeks and willed the heat and color to disappear. She felt in this moment that she had somehow betrayed herself in a manner that was entirely unforgivable. It was one thing to do one’s duty. It was quite another to relish the idea of it, especially with a Scotsman. What would her mother think of her were she alive today?
She began to walk more quickly, every nerve of her body uneasy and tense. She should have pushed him away. She should have adjured him never to trespass her lips in such a fashion again. She should never have gone to him in the first place. Foolish, foolish errand.
And now his demands.
There must be something else she could do to right her fortunes. Once more she considered going to Mr. Calvert, Captain Bladen, or even ridiculous Harris Rockingham, who followed her around like a puppy, for each were in possession of considerable fortunes. Yet even as these possibilities crossed her mind she dismissed them. She had known these gentlemen for years, and Harris had been a playmate from childhood. How could she then approach them about her suddenly straightened circumstances, nonetheless offer herself as barter for a fortune in order to relieve her father of his sufferings? Every feeling was offended at the very thought of it. No, for the present she must submit to the pursuit of Sir Roger’s immense wealth.
Glancing around, she realized she had crossed the first mile of the descent to her home. She turned back to look at the castle, now visible on its lonely prominence. The walls were ragged, ivy cloaked, and still charming in their antiquated way, but one of the turrets was nearly restored, the vestiges of the former ruined state visible in the difference in coloration between the new and the weathered stones. A wagon laden with stone was making its way slowly up the hill.
A feeling of intense loneliness swept over Madeline, a surprising sensation given the ire which raged in her spirit, and yet quite familiar. As her gaze lifted from the castle and swept over the clear blue of the July sky, she knew precisely the moment she had begun to feel as though she walked alone on the earth—the moment her mother had passed from this life. As the eldest of four daughters, the responsibility of Fairlight Manor had fallen on her shoulders.
And she was responsible. She always knew her duty, and she always did her duty. But how wonderfully different everything would be if her mother were still alive. For one thing, she never would have permitted Papa to gamble away his fortune on holiday in Brighton.
This would not do, however, this maudlin dwelling upon the sadness of the past. She whirled around and began her march back to Fairlight and to the future, a future in which she must somehow accomplish the impossible. Within less than a month’s time, she must somehow acquire three invitations from Lady Cottingford or her family would be in the basket, indeed.
She worked backward in her mind, trying to find some pathway by which she could accomplish this extraordinary feat. Who would she have to involve, to call upon to support her? How could she gain such support when it involved a Scotsman?
She shuddered at the mere magnitude of the labor before her. Which of the leading hostesses of the neighborhood about Chilchester would be willing to support her in her bid for three invitations to the harvest ball? None, was the simple answer which returned to her, since each hostess cherished the hope of receiving an invitation this year herself.
Unless—here Madeline’s heart leaped—unless she did not make it known that this was her object. She began running lightly down the final incline to the border of her father’s property. There were several hostesses of whom she could make considerable use to promote her cause, even if she must be as wily as a fox about the business. Elizabeth Crawley for one, Lady Hambledon for another, and her own grandmother, should she be hard-pressed. Another she probably would be required to approach was Harris Rockingham’s mother, a veritable dragon of a woman, but one who possessed considerable influence.
Yes, she finally began to see a way that the object might be achieved by means of a few select favors requested. A soiree here, a picnic there, and the deed might just be accomplished.
The most pressing difficulty, however, reared its head causing Madeline to stop dead in her tracks once more. Sir Roger. Even if she were exceedingly careful in every stratagem, how the deuce was she to secure an invitation to Lady Cottingford’s harvest ball for Sir Roger?
She squeezed her eyes shut. And how on earth had it happened that her simple country life had suddenly become so very complicated?
~ ~ ~
“Call him off, Mathieson.”
Sir Roger snapped his fingers. His faithful hound, Churchill, drew up sharply next to him and settled onto his haunches. Sir Roger set aside the receipt for the most recent shipment of stone and glanced at Lord Anthony, whose white complexion had grown quite pink. Beads of sweat were visible on his forehead. “Will you never learn?” Sir Roger asked, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.
“Oh, the devil take it.” Lord Anthony said. “You know very well that beast of yours takes delight in tormenting me. And look at this, another pair of breeches ruined.”
“I have no sympathy for you, as you very well know. You need to be firm, masterly. He senses he is able to dominate you, so he does.” He glanced at the fawn-colored breeches. The knee of the left one had been ripped quite nicely and now hung in a pretty fringe over the front of Lord Anthony’s glossy top boots.
His friend of a decade and more glared at Churchill, and for this small gesture was rewarded with a faint baring of teeth and a soft growl. “Enough,” Sir Roger stated.
Churchill looked up at him adoringly and wagged his tail, which swished behind him over the carpet.
Lord Anthony moved away from the vicious dog and bent over to tuck in the offending shred of fabric.
“No,” Sir Roger said, as Churchill lunged forward, intrigued by the new mark. He could only laugh. His friend was hopelessly dim-witted and the easiest of targets for so fearless a creature as the hound still sitting obediently beside him.
There was nothing for it, however. He rang for his butler, Shipley. A few minutes later, Churchill trotted proudly beside Shipley, being led to the kitchens, where Cook spoiled him mercilessly.
“There, you see,” Sir Roger said, his smile still threatening his lips, “even Shipley, who is as old as Pelworthy, can manage Churchill.”
Lord Anthony merely scowled heavily, then threw himself into a chair near a massive stone fireplace. “What did ‘the Paragon’ want?” he asked, pulling an apple from his pocket and beginning to munch. “Tell you again what a scapegrace you are?”
“Worse,” he responded. “She has suffered a change of heart—and circumstances—and wishes to marry me.” Lord Anthony choked on a bite of apple and did not stop coughing and sputtering for a full minute.
“Good God, man. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Lord Anthony wheezed. “What did you say to her? You mean to leg-shackle yourself to the proudest, most disagreeable, most priggish creature in Sussex? If you do, you are more addled even
than I.”
At that, Sir Roger grew thoughtful. He took up a chair opposite his friend, who once more began to chomp on his apple, and considered this remark. He had once believed her to be quite prudish, but after this most recent kiss, he was no longer certain. He had been stunned by the way she had leaned quite scandalously into him and wondered if she was a lady of some experience after all. However, the shocked expression on her face afterward had convinced him she had merely responded to him, a not unhappy notion.
At the same time, he had also been surprised by his own reaction. He had always taken great delight in kissing the ladies, but in accosting Miss Piper he had meant to subdue her a little. Instead, he had found himself astonished by how he had felt holding her in his arms, as though the earth had become a vibrant drum beneath the soles of his boots. He could have kissed her forever.
Until, of course, she drew back and looked at him as though he was as hideous as Vulcan himself. His original purposes had been renewed in that moment as all his former ire returned to him. How much he would delight in bringing Miss Piper down quite a few pegs over the coming month. This would at least be some measure of retribution for the many indignities his own mother had suffered at the hands of an English neighborhood.
“To answer your question,” he said, watching a touch of juice ease down his friend’s chin, “I have not made up my mind. I would have, of course, a month ago when I offered for her, but now . . .” he rose from his chair, whipped his kerchief from the pocket of his coat, and offered it to his bacon-brained friend.
“Obliged,” Lord Anthony murmured and wiped at his chin.
“You are welcome,” he responded, smiling, then resumed his seat. He had met Lord Anthony, the youngest son of the Earl of Selsfield, while in India. He had been quite a misfit in a land of heat, of ambitious and shrewd businessmen, and of an ancient people whose habits were to his lordship quite incomprehensible.
Sir Roger had picked him up from a filthy gutter. The poor young man had been completely foxed and robbed, of course, of his last tuppence, having been abandoned by a group of dastardly English gentlemen who thought the escapade a quite amusing lark. A fast friendship between the two men had ensued. Whatever Lord Anthony lacked in mental acumen or even to some degree social perception, he made up for in loyalty. Sir Roger had never known so determined a friend as Lord Anthony.
