“No.” With the single word, Harold removed from his chair, turning his back to his father. He paced once. Twice. Then gripped the edge of a bookshelf and frowned at the leather spines. “I refuse to be part of this.”
“Don’t pout, son. It’s unappealing for a man of your age. Had you an eye for Miss Evans?”
Harold scoffed, digging crescent nails into the woodgrain and letting silence stretch before speaking. “This is despicable. Unforgivable. Manipulation of the worst sort.” He ground his teeth. “You’re extorting your childhood friend.”
“You’re not seeing the bigger picture, son. He’ll benefit as much as we will. I know you have doubts on the opium deal, but I assure you it’s sound. He’ll be rich as Croesus after this, all because of my generosity, or as you call it, manipulation.”
Harold heard the creak of the desk chair as his father shifted position.
“Perhaps you’ve misunderstood the situation in which Trethow finds himself,” Eugene said, his tone lowering, the cheer gone. “His daughter’s actions have ruined the family. The man has two choices. He can disown her to try to salvage his family’s reputation, or he can do what’s necessary to save her reputation and thus the family’s. If not for me, what options would he have? Bribe someone else? What will that someone else require for his daughter to marry their son, I ask you? I’m seeing to the security of the family.”
Resting his forehead against the shelf, Harold said, “In case you’ve forgotten, this is marriage we’re talking about. My marriage. I will be tied to my wife for life. She’ll bear my children. She’ll one day be Baroness Collingwood. My wife. I don’t take this situation lightly.”
“And you think I do?” His father’s voice dropped an octave, his words gruff, choked.
Harold turned to watch his father’s shoulders round as the baron leaned over the desk and clasped his head in his hands.
“You don’t understand the straits we’re in,” Eugene breathed, the words little more than a groan. “The amount of debt is…exorbitant. We need money now.”
His anger defused as he watched his father diminish into an older, frailer man. “There are other ways,” Harold said, his voice softening. “If we use the money we earned from this charter to rehire the steward and take his advice to purchase new farming equipment, we would have an income to pay off whatever smaller debts have accrued. With each season’s profit, we can build new homes that will draw more tenants, more farmers, more laborers, increasing the income and paying more debts. Steady, reliable income.”
Eugene shook his head. “It would take too long and too great an expense. How long until the fields yield crops? How long until tenants pay their rent? Years? We need money now. Yes, yes, we can rehire and purchase and build, but we can do all of that with the annual income from Trethow’s estate. For now, we need ready money to pay the debts. We need the opium deal.”
Exhaling from his cheeks, Harold said, “Let’s suppose I agree to marry Miss Trethow. We would have the dowry. We would also have the profits from the charter on top of those figures. Why not use the dowry to pay debt—however much that might cover—and then use the charter profits to rebuild the estate? Or vice versa. I would need to see the estate ledgers, the vowels, and the marriage settlement to better assess the situation, but you understand me. If we can’t do it with the charter profits alone, surely we can with the dowry. There’s no need for the investment and no need to siphon from Trethow’s income.”
His father’s hands slapped the desk with such ferocity, Harold jerked backwards.
“You’re a boy of twenty. You know nothing of life. I need money that flows, not the kind that trickles.” He smacked the desk again. “It is my moral obligation to invest Trethow’s money. That’s what he entrusted me to do. That’s the whole point of the deal—this investment. The contracts are already signed.”
Harold’s fists clenched at his father’s “moral obligation.” As quickly as his father’s strength had drained to frailty, it now swelled with authority—angry, exasperated authority.
“You will marry the girl,” the baron commanded. “Until you reach your majority, you will do as you’re told.”
“Not to be the eternal optimist, but you did fancy her when you first saw her,” Patrick said to Harold. “A physical attraction could become more. Given time.”
Harold grunted.
Morning sun filtered through the diamond-latticed windows. The two gentlemen sat in the parlor, both dressed for the hunt, neither attending the hunt. Harold slumped in his chair. One hand drummed a rhythm on his thigh, the other rubbed his bottom lip as if to stimulate thought, his booted ankle propped on his knee. Patrick, conversely, sat upright, one leg crossed over the other, his teacup and saucer poised for enjoyment.
“You’ll marry her?”
Harold gave a curt nod.
“Because your father commands it.”
His gaze snapped from the window to the curiosity of his friend. “No. There’s a host of reasons, none of which owe to Father’s mandate. At least not explicitly. The house is full of guests, expectant guests, guests who demand satisfaction. I may not be responsible for her, but I can’t now stand by and watch her fall, not knowing what my father’s done, not considering I was intended to marry her before my father’s greed.”
“Guilt?” Patrick questioned.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I feel responsible for her. Had I not listened to my father in the first place, I would have been courting her, and Driffield never would have worked his charm on her.” His fingers worried his lip, a thought occurring to him. “Do you think she’ll resent me?”
Patrick quizzed him with a look as he refilled his tea.
Pushing himself upright, Harold dug an elbow into the chair arm and leaned forward. “Rather than see that I’m helping her, what if she resents me for trapping her in an arranged marriage? There will be no further opportunity to continue her dalliance or vie for Driffield’s hand, no return home, no say in marriage to me.”
“It’s possible. Women are funny creatures. Honestly, I don’t know what you see in them.” Patrick took a single sip from his cup and set the saucer on the table. Looking at Harold directly, he said, “Know this. Whatever her sentiments, you can prove to her you’re a good man and win her affection. With a bit of motivation, I think you can do more than turn the tide with her.”
“In what way?” Harold asked.
“Try to take control of the financial situation in so much as your hands are tied. Think. You’ve a mind for numbers. There must be a way to follow through with your father’s deal but protect the family when the investment goes belly up, as you know it will.”
He listened but did not know what to make of the possibilities. Dealing with his father was like watching a captain punching holes in his own ship. He needed time to think, yet there was no time.
“What if she loves him?” Harold asked. “I can’t compete with that.”
“Then don’t. She’ll fall for you on your own merits.”
Harold snorted.
Voicing the deeper worry was not as easy. His words hitched when he asked, “And if she’s already carrying his child?”
Patrick exhaled sharply. “Ask her. Before the wedding.”
“I can’t ask her something so improper. She wouldn’t tell me even if I did. And what if she is? I can’t halt the wedding. But what if our first child is his, not mine?”
“You’ll be the best father you know how to be.”
Surprising them both, Harold laughed. “You are an eternal optimist. When they force you to marry, I’ll remember this and torture you with happy outlooks on life.”
The heart to heart with Patrick did ease his mind somewhat. He felt more confident about the decision. That did not stop him from fretting that he was about to make one young lady unforgivably unhappy by proposing an unwanted marriage. His one
hope at present was that all parties involved would allow him to propose to her in private of his own volition rather than corralling her in Collingwood’s study and forcing the news in the harshest of ways. If he could present himself as an ardent suitor, no matter how ill-timed—or should that be absurdly well-timed—they might have a chance together.
Hazel gawked at her father. “What do you mean I’m to marry Mr. Hobbs on Monday?”
The words she wanted to say in protest caught in her throat—she did not love him; she had barely spoken to him; she wanted to return home.
Her father turned to Lord and Lady Collingwood. “What she means is will there be enough time between now and Monday to arrange the wedding?”
Hazel pressed her lips together at her father’s warning glance. It would not do to appear ungrateful. To save the family, the baron and baroness were offering their only son, the heir. Despite the situation, they had not withdrawn the childhood promises between Lord Collingwood and her father that she and Mr. Hobbs were to marry one day, rather they had agreed to rush the wedding, thus saving her and her family’s reputations. Truer friendship had never been known. More compassion had never been shown.
But this was marriage. Her marriage. Her forever! Had her father found no alternative?
Blast and double blast. She hated to sound ungrateful. She owed her future to the baron’s kindness and machinations, but… marriage.
Hazel’s heart beat more rapidly than it had when she first heard the baying hounds return from the hunt. All morning she had waited at the edge of her bed, dressed and braced for the summons that would determine the rest of her days. At the sound of the hounds, she had strangled the bedpost, her resolve fraying.
Now a different kind of fear quivered her limbs and sharpened her breath. Not the fear of the unknown. This time was the fear of life without love. How could a man forced into marriage feel anything but resentment for her?
The drawing room door opened behind her.
Before she turned to look, Lord Collingwood rose from his chair. “There you are, son. We were discussing the wedding.”
“You’ve already told her?” At Mr. Hobbs’s disapproving tone, Hazel faced her husband-to-be.
His expression spoke volumes. His brows furrowed. His lips curved into a frown. He looked, if not angry, stormy. His expression, from the tense tick of his jaw to the narrowing of his eyes, said to her that he did not approve of the match. She remembered seeing him walking with Miss Evans, the two paired on more than that occasion—had he a tendré for her?
He came to stand at Hazel’s side, his profile to her.
Lady Collingwood, all smiles, as she always was, clapped her hands. “How lovely you’ll look on my son’s arm at the soiree. Oh, but how silly of me. Your most pressing concern must be the breakfast. Set your mind at ease, Miss Trethow, I’ve already begun the arrangements. As a bride once myself, I know the importance of these matters.”
Rather than respond, Hazel glanced to Mr. Hobbs again. His expression was now chiseled of stone.
“At the risk of appearing rude,” Mr. Hobbs said, “may I request a moment alone with my intended?”
Hazel’s surprise was echoed by the others in the room. Lady Collingwood squeaked. Lord Collingwood harrumphed. Mr. Trethow coughed. No one spoke for long minutes.
At length, Lord Collingwood returned to his feet and said, “Shall we see what Mr. Quainoo has in mind for the soiree now that it’s to be a betrothal party?”
The only fortification Hazel received was an encouraging nod from her father as the group departed.
Once alone with Mr. Hobbs, Hazel clasped her hands at her waist and raised her chin. What must he think of her? Her betrothed walked across the room to the fireplace, resting a hand on the mantel.
When he finally looked at her, her breath caught in her throat. Brown eyes studied her, searching for answers to unspoken questions, the brown eyes she had seen at the first supper of his attendance rather than the brown eyes she had met on the wilderness walk. The eyes of a man here on business, not pleasure. He disapproved of her.
“I had hoped to propose to you alone rather than have it mandated,” he said, the words contrasting his expression.
“Would that have made a difference?” She squeezed her fingers.
“You tell me. Would you have preferred I come to you as a suitor with an honest proposal or be forced by our parents into matrimony?”
“But you’re not a suitor with an honest proposal. Are you?”
He stared at her in silence, those piercing eyes trying to read her. When he spoke again, he turned away, his attention on the fireplace. “I apologize for the manner in which you were told. It was badly done. I take it, however, you’re not opposed? The match is acceptable?”
Hazel almost laughed. He asked as though she had a choice in the matter.
“You’re to be my savior, Mr. Hobbs. How could I object?”
He nodded once, a curt inclination. “I leave tomorrow morning for Exeter to obtain the license. The guests will be invited to stay through Monday to attend the breakfast. Some may leave the morning after the soiree as originally planned, but I suspect, given the circumstances—” He shifted from one foot to the other, propping a leg on the marble surround. “They’ll stay.”
Hazel took her time studying him in turn. This…this…stranger was to be her husband in four days. Would she ever become accustomed to him? Could she make him love her? Did she want him to fall in love with her? He was nothing but a stranger.
“I ask this not to be indelicate,” he continued, “but I must know. I will not judge you ill. But you owe it to me to be honest.” He hooked a finger behind his cravat and cleared his throat. “Is there a chance you could be with child?”
Hazel gasped and reeled backwards. “How…how dare you.” The audacity! “That is the most indelicate and inappropriate question I’ve been asked in my life. Have you no shame? Have you no sense of honor?” What a base man!
“I’m marrying you, Miss Trethow. I would say that makes me the most honorable man of your acquaintance.”
Hazel looked around the room at anything but him. “I—I don’t wish to be alone with you anymore. Please, leave.”
Her cheeks flamed. So this was what he thought of her. Given the circumstances, it should not surprise her, but she was out of her element. To know he thought of her as a…a whore. To know they all thought of her in those terms. It was too much. Her throat burned. Oh, please leave before I further humiliate myself by weeping.
She heard the creak of the floor as he walked to the door. “All will be settled soon, Miss Trethow. Together, we will turn a scandal into a celebration.”
Chapter 10
Had Hazel known how swiftly time would pass, she would have made a concentrated effort to memorize every moment. How could she later remember her wedding day when it rushed by in a blur?
The evening prior, it had rained so heavily, she had lain awake all night, fretting about carriage wheels stuck in the mud, overturned vehicles, and sinking horses. Even without the rain, she would not have slept a wink. Sleep was an impossibility, just as it eluded all brides. This was her last night as Miss Trethow. Her last night alone. The darkest of rooms could not hide the blush that stole across her cheeks. However much she wanted her marriage to be to someone she loved, she was to be married. Worry crossed her mind but outweighing that was undeniable exhilaration.
She was not opposed to marrying Mr. Hobbs, not even after his probing and indecorous question. She did wish she knew him better, knew him at all, really. They had never shared a conversation outside of polite exchanges. At the soiree, they had spoken only briefly, the whole of the evening focused on receiving congratulations from the guests—the same guests who whispered behind their hands when she was not looking, and a few who whispered even when she was looking. In a funny sort of way, she wondered how many o
f the unmarried ladies envied her. Their congratulations had been offered on sharp tongues and with narrowed eyes. With Mr. Hobbs’s family being wealthy and well connected, he could marry anyone of his choosing, and yet they had arranged for him to marry her. Yes, the unmarried ladies must be envious. She had seen the way they looked at Mr. Hobbs, especially Miss Evans.
Whatever misgivings Hazel had were nothing compared to her realization that in the morning she was marrying one of the most eligible bachelors in the West Country. More than once through the thunderstorm, no, make that more than a dozen times, she had thought of how handsome he had looked when their paths crossed on the wilderness walk.
The trouble was his impression of her. She could spend eternity convincing herself how swoon worthy he was, but if he spent their married life thinking her a whore, that would not get them very far. Wounded pride encouraged her to tell him the truth. Common sense warned he would not believe her. And so spun her mind through thunder, lightning, and the relentless rain.
The morning of the wedding dawned with sunshine.
Escorted in carriages, the family proceeded to the chapel. Hazel traveled with her father and brother, while Mr. Hobbs rode with Lord and Lady Collingwood. The chapel was on estate grounds, a small family chapel not far from the dower house. They had planned to walk there. The mud had other ideas.
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