HeirAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  “Oh.” Hazel bowed her head. Less than a minute later, she was smiling again. “We could cover her costs.”

  He coughed.

  “As you said, she would live frugally. We could certainly pay to set her up at least.”

  How he was supposed to respond to that, he did not know. Admit they were paupers? Admit that his father racked debts on entertaining he could never pay but had no coin on hand to let a cottage or even lend? Admit he had no access to funds of his own? Hazel may have a heart of gold, but Harold had no way to see her idea to fruition. He rubbed his forehead at the onset of a migraine.

  Hazel huffed. “Well if you won’t, I will. While I don’t know the exact figure, I know my father paid handsomely to secure this marriage. I’ll pay for her needs out of my dowry. That should be more than enough to help her.”

  His breathing shallowed.

  She continued, “We’ve not yet spoken about an allowance. I formally request pin money. Take it from my dowry. Since I may use my pin money however I wish, I’ll use it to help her. Now, what amount do you suppose is fair, and when shall I receive my first installment?”

  Good heavens. He covered his mouth with his hand.

  What she asked for was conversely reasonable and impossible. Would she understand if he explained the fate of her dowry? He thought not. The realization that she would have no money of her own or even a widow’s income—perish the thought—might come as a rude awakening.

  Now that the moment presented itself, should he explain their situation? If he did, how much should he tell? That they were destitute? That they were waiting for a risky investment to pay off? That his father had coerced her father to the point of Trethow’s possible ruin? Then there was the explanation of where he fit into that dismal painting. He had little part in any of it, yet he was not certain she would see it that way.

  Moving his hand to cover his eyes, he tried to think of where to begin. He could not. He needed to think this through first.

  Harold raked a hand through his hair. “Give me a few days. I’ll sort it.”

  She gave a brisk nod and a satisfied smile, likely assuming he not only meant he would sort the allowance but also the living arrangements of her “widowed” friend. He had not the first idea how to sort any of it.

  Victorious, she reached over to tug at his buttons. Her flirty smile helped him forget his turmoil. Almost.

  Chapter 19

  The family gathered in the drawing room, awaiting guests. Hazel had not yet mentioned to Agnes the possibility of an alternate plan, and she was pleased she had not, for Agnes was all too clearly hoping tonight would be a promising opportunity for a match. Although Agnes was naturally beautiful, she had taken pains this evening to look stunning. Whatever gentleman did not fall for her tonight was mad.

  A quick look at Harold confirmed him mad. His eyes were trained on Hazel. Only Hazel. Her cheeks warmed at his open regard.

  There was so much about him to love. Every day presented a new discovery, some new reason to fall for him, and oh, she was falling. If she were being truthful, she had already fallen for him; his honesty, his respect, his humor, his cleverness, his talent. The list was endless, and she knew; she had tried to list all his assets one evening while she waited for him. Even when he joined her in the sitting room, she was still adding new items to the list and had countless more to continue adding. How she had not recognized him at first sight as her life’s match, she would never know, for he was undoubtedly just that. It was more than him, though. It was how he made her feel. How he made her feel about herself.

  She had not spoken about him much to Agnes. The two had once shared everything with each other, but no longer. There was an inexplicable chasm between them that widened every day. Hazel hoped that would not last, for Agnes was her dearest friend and had been for as long as she could remember. Together, they were supposed to raise their children. Together, they were supposed to grow old. But she found herself not confiding in Agnes as she might have done before her marriage. And of course, there were all the secrets Agnes had kept from her regarding Lord Driffield. In time, all would be resolved. She hoped.

  The brief mention she had made to Agnes about her growing affection for Harold had been met with a dismissive wave and an impertinent, and rather shocking statement that it was only the intimacy Hazel liked. Well, Hazel had not been about to discuss that aspect of the marriage, but she did soundly disagree. Yes, the intimacy was surprisingly wonderful. Their marriage was not traditional; their evenings together were not duty bound. Everything about their time together was freeing. But that was not why she had fallen for him. Had she never visited his bedchamber, she would feel the same way, for it was Harold she had fallen for, not…well, not that. Convincing Agnes seemed tedious and unnecessary. In time, with a love match of her own, perhaps Agnes would understand.

  Ah, the first guest.

  The knocker fell four times at the front door. Voices could be heard from the entrance hall as Mr. Quainoo greeted the guest.

  Hazel sidled next to Harold as the family assembled, ready to begin the festivities.

  The drawing room double doors opened, and the butler led Lord Kissinger into the room. While Lord and Lady Collingwood visibly relaxed since it was just Lord Kissinger, Hazel, Harold, and Agnes stepped forward with hearty welcomes. For at least another ten minutes, they talked together, Kissinger joking about the song choices he had considered for the post-supper entertainment.

  At length, the knocker fell again. Voices in the entrance hall. Mr. Quainoo’s appearance.

  Agnes was the first to see the guests and exclaim, “Melissa!” With a bold break from decorum, Agnes dashed across the room to embrace Melissa and curtsy to Sir Chauncey.

  Once Hazel’s father- and mother-in-law said their greetings, and Lord Collingwood engaged Sir Chauncey in conversation, Melissa joined their little group, Agnes’s arm hooked with hers.

  Hazel kissed each cheek. “What a wonderful surprise!”

  “I would have written,” Melissa said, “but we didn’t receive the invitation until yesterday.”

  While her friend and Sir Chauncey had been at the hunting party, Hazel had not realized Lord Collingwood and Sir Chauncey were partners. She wondered if it was the same investment her father had been so excited about. A pity her father could not be here, but from what she understood of the invitations, her father-in-law had only invited those who lived within a close enough proximity to return home after supper.

  The knocker once more. This time, Mr. Quainoo escorted a gentleman and his wife who Hazel could not remember. Two more arrivals followed that. It was to be a small gathering, she knew. The evening seemed overly extravagant for so short of a guest list. What was the point of impressing guests who were already in business with him? Lord Collingwood did love to flaunt his wealth. Hazel was relieved that Harold never showed the same inclinations.

  Melissa leaned in to ask for Hazel’s hearing only, “Is that doe-eyed expression for appearances or…?”

  Flushing, Hazel said, “I hadn’t realized I was staring at him.”

  With a touch to the back of Hazel’s wrist and a teasing smile, Melissa said, “I know that look. I never thought to see it directed at Mr. Hobbs. You must tell me everything.”

  Hazel promised with a nod as the knocker sounded yet again.

  When Mr. Quainoo stepped into the room this time, a hush fell. The Earl of Driffield walked in, on his arm a blonde who looked down her nose at everyone in attendance.

  Out of the corner of her eyes, Hazel could see Agnes stiffen.

  Harold stepped away from Kissinger to come to Hazel’s side, his hand to the small of her back. At the same time, Kissinger moved to Agnes’s side. Good. Should Agnes swoon, he could catch her. Hazel took one step closer to Harold.

  Harold fumed. Thankfully, Patrick had understood his nod and stepped to Miss Plumb’s side.
Harold could not offer support to both ladies, and his priority was Hazel. He imbued strength into the hand he touched to the small of his wife’s back.

  The effrontery of his father to invite Driffield both angered and disgusted Harold. While his father would not know the connection between Miss Plumb and Lord Driffield, he did know there was a connection between the man and Hazel, even if that connection was erroneous. That fact made this all the more heinous. Driffield may have invested, but that did not give him the right to step foot into this house again. This affirmed what Harold already knew: his father thought of no one beyond himself. To his father, Hazel was nothing more than a means to have acquired ready financing, forgotten the moment the settlement was signed and the vows exchanged.

  She was Harold’s wife, yet his father showed her no more respect than he would a servant.

  As the son of the host, the heir to the barony, and a respectable gentleman, Harold schooled his features into a mask of polite reception, thankful that they had not stood on ceremony this evening by forming a receiving line. With any luck, Driffield would ignore this corner of the room. Harold could then approach to welcome him without causing discomfort to Hazel or Miss Plumb.

  Conversation did not immediately resume. Harold’s companions watched Driffield guide his guest around the room to introduce her. Harold wondered how annoyed his mother would be when denied the privilege of making the introductions.

  As the earl moved closer, Lady Melissa Williamson broke the silence to say, “What lovely greenery! Does Lady Collingwood have a hot house?”

  Patrick replied, “Lady Collingwood has an infatuation with my mother’s hot house.”

  The two continued discussing the hot house with far more animation than was required, and soon Hazel and Miss Plumb joined in with equal enthusiasm. Harold remained ever watchful. Driffield laughed at whatever Mr. and Mrs. Pottington said, then led his guest to Lord Wilkerson. The young lady, Harold could not help but notice, must think herself above all in attendance, for she held her nose high, her mouth pouted, and her eyes narrowed. She might have been attractive if she had relaxed and smiled. Alas, she looked like a cat who licked soured cream.

  Harold tensed. Driffield had turned their way.

  The enthralling conversation about hot houses increased volume.

  “Mr. Hobbs,” Driffield said with a stiff nod. Addressing the lady at his side, he said, “This is our host’s son Mr. Hobbs and his wife Mrs. Hobbs. You’ll wish to know Lady Williamson, as you’ve already met her husband Sir Chauncey.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Patrick raise his eyebrows at being ignored. The color had drained from Miss Plumb’s face, but she held her shoulders back and her head up.

  “At her request,” Driffield continued, “I’ve the honor of introducing Lady Felicia, daughter of the Duke of Milford, and my betrothed.”

  Harold might have guessed. If anyone in the group was surprised, no one displayed the sentiment. A round of well met, how lovely for you, and a pleasure was exchanged before Driffield turned away with his betrothed on his arm. Just when Harold thought he was going to give the cut direct to the Earl of Winthorp’s heir, the man stopped, pivoted, and partially turned to face Patrick, though he did not encourage Lady Felicia to do the same.

  Lord Driffield inclined his head almost imperceptibly and said, “Lord Kissinger,” before guiding his betrothed across the room.

  Harold’s eyes met Patrick’s. The corners of his friend’s eyes crinkled in amusement. Acknowledged but not introduced.

  More pointedly, he had given Miss Plumb the cut direct. It was not a risky slight on his part, as his betrothed would simply think her of no consequence, a poor relation invited out of pity. But it was humiliating for Miss Plumb. Both Hazel and Lady Williamson offered Miss Plumb their support, though discreetly. Lady Williamson, for her part, laughed and smiled at an unspoken joke as she clasped Miss Plumb’s hand.

  Harold stepped over to Patrick and asked under his breath, “Any reason for the tension?”

  “No idea,” Patrick said, expression still bemused. “Best guess? He assumes I’m one of the investors, an unworthy partner given any money I would have offered as capital would be from my father’s accounts. Less likely guess? I was standing next to Miss Plumb.”

  “Both perhaps. Easier to cut Miss Plumb if he also cuts the person standing next to her.”

  Patrick chuckled. “Actually, I was thinking along the lines of his being envious I was standing at her side while he escorted the marmalade tart.”

  Harold snorted a laugh.

  Not long did they wait before moving into the dining room for supper. Patrick sat to one side of Miss Plumb, Harold at her other side. Any concern he might have had about having to carry a conversation with the pale but stoic Miss Plumb was relieved by Patrick asking her about this evening’s musical selection. Ever the chivalrous viscount.

  Harold was free to converse with Hazel, his confident, lively, and lovely wife. This evening she glowed with the beauty of a woman in her element, surrounded by guests to entertain. Hazel did not appear discomfited by the earl’s presence aside from her concern for Miss Plumb. Any worry stirred by Lord Driffield’s arrival was allayed. Gone were Harold’s worries of old of stolen looks between Hazel and Driffield, but he had fretted she would be uncomfortable that guests would recall the scandal.

  Hazel angled closer and invited Harold to do the same. She whispered, “I don’t think there are any matchmaking prospects here.”

  “I suspect you’re right. Although…Lord Wilkerson is unmarried.”

  Hazel harrumphed but cast him a sidelong smirk. “He has too many chins.”

  Harold nearly choked on his drink. He took a moment to recover then said, “And here I thought the gravest insult was that a man had no chin.”

  Beneath the table, she pinched his elbow.

  His mother’s voice rose above the din, her question quieting conversation. “Lord Driffield, when is the wedding?”

  Rather than the earl answering, the hitherto silent Lady Felicia responded. “The morning of the Countess of Driffield’s first ball of the Season. Her ladyship wishes her first ball to celebrate the nuptials between her son and me and the union of our two families.”

  “How lovely,” Helena said. “At St. George’s, I presume?”

  “No other location will do,” said Lady Felicia.

  “Are we the first to know of the happy event? Oh, I should like to think my little party is this important!” Helena tittered.

  Speaking again for her betrothed, Lady Felicia said, “Indeed not. We’ve been engaged these past two years, plans delayed only until my father could return from France where he’s been restoring his chateau. We had not intended to announce the wedding until the first ball, but after discussion, we’ve decided we’ve waited long enough.”

  “Isn’t that lovely?” Helena looked around the table at her other guests.

  As more questions and answers volleyed, Harold eyed Miss Plumb. The poor girl had stopped eating, and try as she might to carry on a hushed conversation with Patrick, she looked peaky.

  Mr. Pottington said, “Must be a hardship to have waited so long.”

  This time, Lord Driffield spoke rather than Lady Felicia. He aimed his words well, his tone clear, his voice robust. “Time is unimportant when a gentleman knows his perfect match. Lady Felicia is, always has been, and always will be the only woman of my heart.”

  Nothing to do with an absurdly large dowry. Harold scoffed to himself.

  Supper conversation changed course until the ladies returned to the drawing room to allow the men to talk business, which was the sole intention of the party. As Hazel left, she looked over her shoulder at Harold and smiled. The smile, he felt, spoke not only to her affection for him but her reassurance that she would see to her friend. Harold would be shocked if Miss Plumb remained in the drawi
ng room when the men joined for entertainment, conversation, and tea before the end of the party.

  Lord Collingwood smiled through his best performance yet, his finest periwig perched over a powdered forehead. “You must agree, I brought you only the best of news, gentlemen.”

  The guests concurred. With the mood light, the investors pleased, and Collingwood the bearer of glad tidings, the investment talk over port and cigars was worth the travel efforts and evening spent at Trelowen.

  “My man has done right by us. I knew when I received written confirmation that the ship had sailed, it would by now be entering its first port. A two-week stretch from departure to first port. Assurance is a grand thing, is it not?”

  Hearty agreement. A toast. Idle chatter about when they might receive the next notice of progress.

  Harold listened for clues of his father’s true motive for hosting the supper, and with so select a band of partners, but he could not decipher the meaning. Everything his father said rang with truth. While it was unlikely they would hear word of the ship’s progress once it hit the stretch to China, it was likely they could have received notice of the departure. Surprising but possible. Certainly encouraging. Letters could take anywhere from a month to a full year, so his father’s contact in India had gone to lengths to ensure the letter would be received to assure the investors.

  Not for a moment did Harold let down his guard, though. His father could be a superb actor. It was one of the prime elements that kept people lending him money, opening accounts, writing vowels. Despite the frayed curtains, threadbare rugs, peeling wallpaper, and other signs of a man on his way to financial ruin, no one would guess his father to be anything but one of the wealthiest men in the West Country. He missed his calling for the stage.

  Yet why go through all this trouble if the missive had not been received? Harold propped an elbow on the table, analyzing everything his father said.