Heiress Gone Wild

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “I think I would prefer to go up and change,” Marjorie answered. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Eileen will show you to your room, and I will see you this evening. We dine at eight, but the family usually begins gathering in the drawing room about half past seven for cordials. Do join us there, if you wish.”

  Marjorie gave the duchess and Jonathan a nod of farewell and turned away, but before she could follow Eileen up the stairs, the front doors opened behind her, and a tall, willow-slim woman in a tailored beige walking suit came into the entrance hall. “I don’t understand why editors always have to make such a fuss,” she said, speaking over her shoulder to the tall, blond-haired man following her through the wide doorway. “You’d think I’d told him to get stuffed.”

  The man laughed. “You did worse than that, Clara. You told him he was being difficult.”

  “That’s not what I said. But he is so aggravatingly old-fashioned. We must keep up with the times, and that includes printing photographs in our publications. Besides—” She broke off as she turned and spied Jonathan and Marjorie. Her steps faltered, and her body went still. She offered no ebullient greeting as her sister had done. She did not even smile.

  Marjorie felt Jonathan tense beside her. She heard his sharp, indrawn breath and his slow, resigned exhale.

  “So, the prodigal returns at last,” the woman murmured as she pulled out her hat pin and removed her wide-brimmed hat of leghorn straw. Her absurdly tiny nose gave a sniff as she wove the pin through the hat brim. “Better six years late than not at all, I suppose.”

  “Hullo, Clara,” he said.

  She made no reply, but her hands stilled.

  Oh, no, Marjorie thought, feeling the tension in the air.

  Irene gave a cough. “Clara, this is Miss Marjorie McGann. Marjorie, my sister, Lady Galbraith.”

  “Miss McGann.” The woman’s features relaxed into friendlier lines as she crossed the entrance hall. By the time she reached Marjorie, she was smiling, but she did not even glance at Jonathan. “Irene telephoned me at the newspaper office earlier and told me you were coming with our brother after all. Welcome to England.”

  “Thank you, Lady Galbraith.”

  “Clara, please,” she said and gestured to the man who had come in with her. “This is my husband, Rex.”

  “Miss McGann.” Lord Galbraith bowed to her, then he looked at Jonathan and held out his hand, hinting that he at least was of the same mind as the duchess about Jonathan’s return. “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you,” Jonathan replied as the two men shook hands.

  There was another silence, shorter this time, then the duchess spoke again. “I was just about to have Boothby send tea up to the library,” she said with a nod to the butler, who at once glided away in obedience to this command. “It’s a bit late, but one can always do with a cup of tea.”

  Her voice was smooth and cheerful, as if nothing at all was amiss, as if the tension brought with Clara’s arrival wasn’t as thick as an English pea soup fog. “Miss McGann is going up to change, but Jonathan . . .” She paused, and this time, her gaze paused meaningfully on her brother. “Jonathan is joining me.”

  “How lovely,” the viscountess said, her bright voice somehow managing to imply that it might not be lovely at all. The English, Marjorie appreciated, thinking of Lady Stansbury and her circle, had an astonishing talent for civil insincerity.

  “No tea for me,” Lord Galbraith said. “I’m going up to change. It’s almost six o’clock. And,” he added, giving Jonathan a wink over his wife’s head, “after Clara has finished shredding her poor brother into spills for being away so long, I suspect I’ll be needed to offer him something stronger than tea.”

  “I’ve no intention of shr . . . shredding Jonathan into spills,” Lady Galbraith protested, her voice faltering on the admission. “Even though he deserves it.”

  “It’s good to see you, Clara,” Jonathan said gently, but he didn’t move closer. Instead, he waited.

  “Is it?” Her round face twisted, her coolness seemed to shatter into pieces, and she gave a sob. “Oh, Jonathan!”

  He closed the distance in an instant, and Marjorie gave a sigh of relief as the viscountess’s straw hat and hat pin fell to the floor and she wrapped her arms around her brother’s neck with another sob.

  Marjorie watched them a moment longer, then she turned tactfully away and followed the housekeeper up the stairs.

  The drawing room of Torquil House, with draperies of ivory and pale green and glittering crystal chandeliers, was every bit as grand as the entrance hall. But at the far end of the room, a pair of immense double doors had been flung back to reveal a much cozier room, with murky green walls, overstuffed bookshelves, and chintz-covered sofas. Electric lamps had been lit, and a fire burned in the grate, warding off the evening chill in the spring air.

  Irene seated herself on one of the two sofas facing each other in the center of the room, Clara sat beside her, and Jonathan sank down opposite them.

  “Now, Jonathan, you must tell us everything,” Irene said, wasting no time on preliminaries. “Your letter last month said Miss McGann was a schoolgirl.”

  “That’s what I’d been led to expect myself. I didn’t learn otherwise until I met her.”

  “You couldn’t have written again and clarified that she was a grown woman?”

  “I did. In my telegram.”

  “Which was hardly edifying.” Irene pulled a slip of paper out of the pocket of her tea gown and read, “‘Miss McGann older than thought. Will need maid and room prepared for her. Explain all soon. Arriving about teatime. Jonathan.’”

  Shoving the telegram back in her pocket, she looked at him again. “You might have warned us what to expect in greater detail than that.”

  “I would have done,” he replied wryly, “if I’d had the opportunity.”

  He launched into explanations, but he’d barely conveyed Marjorie’s unexpected arrival aboard ship before he was interrupted by a round of merry laughter from the two women opposite.

  He watched them, not nearly as amused as they seemed to be. “I fail to see what you two are laughing about,” he said, trying to assume an air of dignity.

  “Serves you right,” Irene said, still laughing. “After you just left her there.”

  “Well, I didn’t know what else to do with her,” he mumbled, shifting in his seat, reminded that nothing could make a man feel more of a fool than his sisters enjoying a joke at his expense. “It didn’t seem right to—”

  “Bully for Marjorie,” Clara interrupted him. “Forcing you to live up to your responsibilities for a change.”

  “That’s not fair,” he countered, but as he watched her chin go up, he was reminded that he didn’t have a leg to stand on there, not with Clara, and he sighed, his defenses collapsing.

  “Clara, I am sorry I let you down six years ago.”

  “So you said in your letter on the subject. No need to apologize again.”

  “I think maybe there is,” he said gently, “if your face is anything to go by. But the truth is . . .” He paused and leaned forward to take her hand in his. “As long as Papa owned the company, having me come home and take over the paper would never have worked.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do. And so do you. Papa would never have allowed me the autonomy and control he allowed you, and Irene before you. He’d have fought me every step of the way. Sooner or later, we’d have had another row, and he’d have tossed me out again.”

  “Oh, I suppose you’re right,” she cried, her hand squeezing his hard. “But we missed you, damn it! It hurt when you didn’t come home. It really hurt.”

  “I know.”

  He paused, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. “What if I vow not to stay away so long next time? Would that satisfy you, petal?”

  Her lips curved up a little at the use of her childhood nickname. “It might do,” she conceded. “Jack.”
r />   At the sound of his own nickname—one his sisters had given him when he was about five because as a boy he couldn’t sit still and was forever jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box—Jonathan laughed, and Irene gave a gratified sigh.

  “Thank goodness you two are through squabbling,” she said. “Now perhaps we can return to the topic of Miss McGann?”

  “Gladly,” Jonathan answered, relieved. Letting go of Clara’s hand, he leaned back again and turned to his elder sister. “As I was saying, Marjorie circumvented my plan to leave her where she was until she’s out of mourning, so here we are. The question is, what’s to be done with her now? She wants to make a life here in England—have a debut, do the season, find a husband, all that sort of thing. I don’t want to impose on you, but—”

  He broke off as the butler entered with a laden tray. “Tea, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, Boothby,” Irene said as the butler placed the tray on a small table beside her seat. “That will be all.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” The butler set the kettle back down, bowed and moved to depart, but he halted by the door when Irene called after him.

  “And Boothby?”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Would you please have Mrs. Mason send some sandwiches and tea up to Miss McGann? The afternoon train from Southampton has no dining car, and the poor girl must be famished.”

  The butler departed, and Irene returned her attention to the subject at hand. “First of all,” she said as she poured a bit of steaming water from the kettle into the teapot, “let’s dispense with any notion of imposition. We’re family, which means Jonathan’s obligations are ours as well. As to Marjorie, there’s only one thing to be done.”

  She paused, swirling the teapot to let the hot water warm it, then she dumped the water into a bowl on the tray reserved for that purpose. “We’ll introduce her into society and make a place for her, of course.”

  Clara nodded in agreement, and Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut in relief. “Thank you,” he said, opening his eyes again. “I’m glad I can rely on you to look after her properly while I’m in Africa.”

  “Africa?” his sisters echoed in simultaneous surprise.

  Jonathan tensed, his relief dissolving as he watched the two women exchange glances.

  Irene spoke first. “You don’t think you’ll be going now, do you?” She shook her head, laughing a little, and he had the sinking feeling his plans were about to be tossed aside. “Jonathan, Clara and I are complete strangers to the girl.”

  “So was I, until a week ago.”

  “Which is a week longer than we’ve known her.” She paused long enough to spoon tea into the pot and add water from the kettle, then she went on, “More importantly, however, neither of us is Marjorie’s legal guardian.”

  “That distinction hardly matters much at this point—”

  “On the contrary,” she cut in as she put the lid on the teapot and turned to him again. “It matters to me.”

  “I’ll be back by January.” He stirred again, appreciating that he was skating on very thin ice. “Maybe by Christmas,” he amended. “In the meantime, you two are far more capable of watching over the girl than I am.”

  “Perhaps, but we are not the ones who promised to do so,” Irene said incisively. “You did.”

  A promise he knew might be in great danger if he stayed. He thought of Marjorie in the carriage a short time ago, with all the same desire he felt reflected in her eyes. But he knew, as she did not, where such desires could lead, and if he lingered here, he risked breaking the promises he’d made to her father. God help him, he did not think he’d have honor enough or strength enough to stop himself.

  It was galling to admit how vulnerable he was where she was concerned. He’d known her little more than a week, and yet, she aroused in him a passion he was finding hard to master. If he gave in to it, he would prove himself to be the very thing he was supposed to be protecting her from.

  “I will do all I can for her, Irene,” he said after a moment, “but I’m of little use to her here. The best thing I can do is leave her to your excellent chaperonage while I see to her business interests.”

  “I care nothing about her business interests,” Irene said with uncompromising bluntness. “I have no intention of allowing you to leave that poor girl with people who are virtual strangers to her and take off for the wilds. She is not a suitcase, and I am not a locker at King’s Cross.”

  “I know that, but damn it, Irene, there’s nothing I can do for her here. The girl needs to be introduced, brought out into society, and in that regard, I’m about as useful as a chocolate teapot.”

  “You’ll be far more useful than you realize. A good-looking, single man with money and titled connections is akin to the Holy Grail, dear brother. You will be an irresistible attraction to the young ladies. A fact that,” she added as he groaned, “will enable Marjorie to more easily meet young women her own age and make friends.”

  “Poor friends, indeed, if their sole reason for being so is to get close to a single man with money.”

  Irene, sadly, ignored that very valid point. “A man like you is an excellent asset to any hostess, especially during the season. You will be of great use at social events, balancing the numbers at dinner parties and entertaining our guests, that sort of thing.”

  He stiffened in dismay. “You cannot be serious.”

  Clara decided this was the perfect moment to offer an opinion. “Irene, I’m sure our friends will adore hearing tales of his life in the American West,” she said, making Jonathan realize in chagrin that they’d planned this, together, probably on the telephone right after Irene had received his telegram. “He can partner the wallflowers when we have dancing, perhaps introduce some of his old schoolfellows to Marjorie.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, appalled by that thought. “If my friends from Winchester and Oxford are anywhere near as wild now as they were in our schooldays, I wouldn’t let any of them within fifty yards of the girl—and neither would you, if you knew even a fraction of the things we did. As for the rest, I can’t imagine she’ll be doing much dancing. She’s in mourning, you know.”

  “She won’t be attending any balls, that’s true,” Irene conceded as she added milk to the teacups and began to strain the tea. “But it’s quite all right if she dances here, in our home. Many of our friends play the piano, so we often roll back the carpets and have a bit of dancing after dinner. And if we do, I’ve no intention of telling Marjorie to go sit in the corner. As for you, Clara’s right that you’ll be an excellent dance partner for any of our female guests, including her.”

  Jonathan thought of Marjorie with flashing pink sapphires around her throat and a dawning sensual awareness in her eyes. He thought of her in his arms, her mouth beneath his, her body yielding to his advance without restraint. He thought of how it would be, continuing to have her so close, and yet forbidden, and he felt as if he’d just entered Dante’s seventh circle of hell. “And how long am I expected to be the useful single man at dinner parties, dancing with wallflowers and introducing suitable bachelors to my ward?”

  Irene considered as she dropped sugar into the teacups. “If I thought I could get away with it,” she said, reaching for a spoon, “I’d say until she’s married, but knowing you—”

  “Irene, be reasonable!”

  “You think I’m not being reasonable?” She paused, staring at him, one blond eyebrow lifted. It was a look he remembered quite well even though he hadn’t seen it for ten years, and wisely, he decided to change tactics.

  “But her trust fund has shares in South African companies. If war with the Boers breaks out, she could lose 10 to 15 percent of her inheritance. What sort of guardian would I be if I let that happen?”

  “And yet, I remain unmoved.”

  “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, ignoring Clara’s smothered laugh. “Can’t we fashion some sort of compromise?”

  “As I recall,” Irene said, “half the p
roblems you had with Papa came from your inability—and his—to compromise.”

  “That’s not fair, and you know it.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m thinking of the girl, not of what’s fair.”

  Deservedly rebuked, he fell silent.

  “How long,” Irene asked as she stirred the tea, “until Marjorie is of legal age?”

  “She turns twenty-one August thirteenth.”

  “Very well.” Irene tapped the spoon against the rim of the last cup and set it aside. “Here is my offer: I will introduce the girl about, assist her in making friends and such. Clara will do the same. You, meanwhile, will postpone your trip until her birthday, and during that two months, you will put yourself at my disposal and hers, just as I described.”

  “And what am I to do between dinner parties? Lounge about, twiddling my thumbs?”

  And torturing myself.

  “Given your restless nature, I would suggest you find something useful and productive to do. As for the girl, you can assist me in preparing her for life as an heiress in British society. Ensuring that she is happily settled here is as much a part of being her guardian as watching over her finances, in my opinion. And no, this is not optional.”

  He exhaled a sigh, falling back in his seat. “And when she turns twenty-one, what then?”

  “She’ll be ready to begin making her own decisions about what she wishes to do, and you will see that whatever arrangements she desires are made. If she feels comfortable remaining with us while you go to Africa, then so be it, and off you go. If not, you will remain here until she is comfortable with us and with her new life. Either way, if doing the season and making a debut are what she wants, I will be happy to launch her, and I expect you to be here for her entire debut season. Are we agreed?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. “Good,” she said and held out his cup and saucer. “Tea?”