by Cheryl Bolen
"I believe Miss Hastings has the right to see this new will."
Her sorrowful gaze went from him to the solicitor.
Wycliff rang a bell, and his clerk entered the chamber. "Be a good lad and fetch Hastings' will."
A moment later, the clerk returned with a large packet and placed it on his employer's desk. Once the door was closed, Wycliff cleared his throat and emptied the contents of the packet onto his desk. He handed Miss Hastings a hand-written document.
Though it wasn't his business, Adam moved to stand over her so he could read her uncle's last will and testament. It started off with the usual language about him being of sound mind, then rather quickly got to the point. "I leave my share of the Ceylon Tea Company to my trusted clerk, James Ashburnham, a capable man who knows the business almost as well as I. It will be left in good hands. In recognition of his faithful service to me, I will to him all my earthly possessions except for legacies to be left to my housekeeper, Mrs. Thornton, and my butler, Boddington, each of whom will receive an annuity of seventy-five pounds for the remainder of their lives. In addition, I bequeath to my niece, Miss Emma Hastings, two hundred pounds annually."
Adam was stunned. Why in the devil would the blighter beg his niece to relocate to London so he could educate her about Ceylon Tea, then while the poor girl was in transit, completely reverse himself? Something was definitely wrong.
Beastly business. The unfortunate Miss Hastings must be in shock. He prayed she wouldn't turn into a watering pot.
"Tell me, Miss Hastings," Adam asked, "have you corresponded with your uncle enough that you would recognize his handwriting?"
She nodded. "I even brought his recent letters with me to London. They're in my portmanteau."
"Does this will appear to be written in his hand?" Adam asked.
"Oh, yes. See the unusual curl on his capital H? That's most distinctive of Uncle Simon's penmanship."
It was an exceedingly neat hand that had penned the document—quite a contrast to the chaos in Hastings' library.
“I’m frightfully afraid, Miss Hastings,” the solicitor said, “I have more distressing news for you.”
“What more can you take away from this poor girl?” Adam demanded.
Mr. Wycliff eyed Emma. “Are you aware that Harriett Lippincott has died?”
Emma shrieked and clutched at her chest, her eyes widening with shock. “My aunt!”
Adam couldn’t blame the poor waif is she launched into another crying fit. Now she really had no blood relation. No home. And she wasn’t even old enough to see to the paltry annuity Simon Hastings had settled upon her.
“How do you know about my aunt?” she asked, still not erupting into explosive wails.
His brows furrowed, his voice soft, Wycliff said, “Your aunt’s vicar has written to Mr. Hastings, informing him that he was now to stand as guardian to you. All of your uncle’s mail now comes to me.”
Adam turned to her. “Do you have any more blood relatives?”
She shook her head and began to softly weep.
Adam addressed the solicitor. “Will Miss Hastings need a guardian?”
“How old is she?”
“She doesn’t reach her majority for seven months.”
Wycliff winced. “The Court of Chancery will have to appoint one for her.”
“Please start the proceedings,” Adam instructed. He suddenly felt compelled to remove Miss Hastings from this scene of harrowing news. He squeezed her shoulder. "We'd best leave now, Miss Hastings. After the sadness which has greeted you your first day in London, you must do something fun, and I'm putting myself at your service."
Tears trickling from her eyes, she offered a wan smile and rose, nodding to Wycliff as she left the chamber.
When they reached his coach, he tried to ignore her state of grief. Holy, bloody hell. Either of those pieces of bad news would have been enough to crush a strapping man. Was there not something he could do to divert her thoughts from such devastation? "Pray, Miss Hastings, you must tell me what you would most like to see in the Capital. Should you like to climb atop St. Paul's? Or take a stroll through Vauxhall Gardens? Perhaps see Poets Corner at Westminster Abbey or look at the exhibits at the British Museum?"
She made no response. She merely looked straight ahead with unseeing eyes. To his consternation, those bluish green eyes of hers started to mist again. Oh, no. He instructed the coachman to drive through Hyde Park. Surely all the finery that was sure to be on display there would fascinate a girl from a small village.
But as soon as the carriage door was closed, her tears came. Great, gushing tears accompanied by heaves and woeful whimpers. She cried all the way from The City to Westminster. She bawled from Westminster to Mayfair. When they entered Hyde Park he tried to divert her attention. "I say, Miss Hastings, I do believe you'll enjoy seeing the fashionable people in Hyde Park."
She didn't even lift her curtain.
He handed her a handkerchief. Good Lord. She was like a living, breathing spigot! He wondered if this was to be The Cry That Never Ended.
Rotten luck. His.
Why in the devil can't I be one of those men who can turn a cold shoulder to a suffering woman? But, no, he would do anything in his power to ease her pain. The pity of it was, there did not seem to be a thing he could do to take her away from her grief.
Rotten luck. Hers.
Was there not something he could do to lift her thoughts away from this shabby business?
He almost wished Simon Hastings was still alive so he could bash in his face. Such thoughts were of no help to the sobbing wretch beside him. He must concentrate on what he could do to eradicate her cries and bring a smile to her youthful face. He remembered the look of child-like pleasure on her face when she'd glimpsed Nick's opulentacious house the previous night. And Nick's house was only minutes away from Hyde Park.
He tapped on the roof of his carriage with his walking stick and ordered his coachman to take them to his brother's house on Piccadilly.
Though the situation, in his mind, demanded that he speak to the sobbing creature in a gentle voice, he forced himself to use a commanding voice. "Miss Hastings, you will have to pull yourself together. I must go to my brother's, to that house you so admired last night, and we can't have you bawling like a baby." He hated himself for being so reproachful to a lady in distress, but kindness had not succeeded.
This approach seemed to work. She took a deep sniff, dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, and finally spoke. "Forgive me."
Something in her forlorn voice went straight to his heart, melting it as heat to butter. He moved across the carriage to sit next to her, to gently cup her shoulder reassuringly.
Now his voice gentled. "There's nothing to forgive. You have every right to show your unfathomable grief. Either one of the sad intelligences you’ve been dealt today would make a grown man bawl. You may very well wish to cry a river, but it will not help. I know you have always wanted to see London, and I won't allow you to return to Upper Bannington until I personally show you the sights of London."
She sniffed. "Barrington. Upper Barrington." Then an anguished sob broke from her, and once more, she was overcome with a crying fit. “The pity of it is I never wanted to return there—and now I cannot. My aunt’s property goes to her father’s heir.”
He curled his arm about her slender, heaving shoulders and was once more aware of her light rose scent. How wretched the poor girl must be. He'd never felt more impotent. He'd always been a problem-solver. And a successful one, to be sure. But when it came to women, he was clueless.
Did they not like hats? "My dear Miss Hastings, before we go to my brother's I should like to take you to London's finest milliner and have you select a new hat." Surely that would cheer her. Maria had certainly loved getting new hats.
She buried her face in her hands and cried harder. “It saddens me that Auntie died alone and that I never said a proper good-bye. That I—the only person who loved her—wasn’t there at the end.”<
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“I believe she knew the end was coming and she wanted to spare you. She wanted you to be happy in London.”
She brightened. “I believe, Mr. Birmingham, you are right.”
He patted her. "Please, Miss Hastings, do quit crying."
Miraculously, her tears cut off as if they had been snuffed. It was a moment before she lifted her tear-stained face to him. Her (perfectly formed, actually) nose was red, as were the whites of her eyes, and he thought he'd never seen a more melancholy face.
He was reminded of his mother's ingrained belief that one could die of a broken heart. He'd never believed such rot, but he did worry that this poor lass's grief was so profound she could perish from it. Simon Hastings' blasted will had crushed her as surely as a boot stomping a shard of glass. Then she lost the closest thing she’d ever had to a mother. Both in the same day.
She seemed such a fragile little thing. Even if she would reach her majority within the year, it was difficult to believe she would be one-and-twenty.
"Thank you most sincerely for all you kindnesses to me, Mr. Birmingham." Her voice had started to break on his name. She stopped, then continued in a more firm tone. "I feel wretchedly guilty that I've been such a burden to you, that you've had to see my crazed weeping."
His arm still hooked around her, he patted her shoulder. "You're not a burden."
"Oh, but I am! You've spent your entire day on me." She drew a breath. "I did so appreciate you going with me to Mr. Wy-y-y-y-" She never got Wycliff out before another cry broke. But she quickly gathered her composure and continued. "Mr. Wycliff's office and acting on my behalf."
"I was happy to do so."
“I never realized heathens could be so nice.”
He chuckled. A provincial like her would think him debauched. He only hoped his mother didn’t come to think him a heathen.
"If I weren't here, what would you be doing with your day?"
"I'd be at my bank. Yesterday was the first time I've ever missed going since I took over the bank when my father died."
"How old were you?"
"Same as you are now." Thank God she was getting her mind off her troubles. "Ten years ago."
"Then I feel doubly guilty for stealing you away."
He placed his knuckles beneath her chin and eased her face closer to his. "Do you not think I've earned a day of fun?"
She burst out laughing. "This cannot have been fun!"
"Ah, but it will be when I show you my city."
The coach had stopped at Nick's, but he'd sent the coachman back to the box. He removed his arm from her. He had gotten far too intimate. He must show Miss Hastings he was a gentleman.
"I should like that," she managed in a whimpering voice. "I have always wanted to be in London.” She began to cry again, all the while trying to articulate, “Where will I live?”
Where would she live?
Her melancholy was like a hammer to his already broken heart. He hated to see her pain. He'd been in pain when Maria left. Still was. At this moment, making Miss Emma Hastings happy was the most important thing in his life.
And he had the means to do so.
"I know how you can stay here.”
“What could you possibly think of to allow me to stay in London?"
"I propose to make you my wife."
Chapter 5
Good Lord! What had come over him? For more than a decade he'd skillfully evaded scheming fortune hunters. Beautiful debutantes, aristocratic ladies from ancient families, and a never-ending stream of opera dancers had all tried to snare him—and his enormous fortune—since the day he reached his majority nine years previously.
His firm resolve not to wed had now been shattered by one bawling female.
Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened into a perfect oval. That melancholy countenance which had captured his sympathy was replaced with one of utter shock. "I cannot have heard you correctly, Mr. Birmingham. Surely you did not just offer for a woman you met only last night?"
He shrugged as casually as one who'd just suggested a spring-day stroll. "I did. If you knew me better, Miss Hastings, you would know that Adam Birmingham never deceives. When I ask for something, I go through with it." He managed a grin. "And I always get what I want."
Her eyes met his. Hers looked almost gray in the carriage's dim light. And they were intense. "Except for Maria," she murmured.
Maria's name was like a swift kick to his gut. If there had been any hope of rekindling his affaire de coeur with Maria, he would never have asked for Miss Hastings' hand. But Maria was now happily married to her count and returning to the country of her birth. He frowned. "Except for Maria."
"How can you offer for one woman when your heart belongs to another?"
He could not deny that he was still in love with his former mistress. "If I can't have Maria, I want no other. I'll not love again. I'll never marry. Why not solve your problem instead? That would lessen my melancholy."
"As much as your proposition would solve my problem, I cannot allow you to throw yourself away on an unsophisticated woman of modest means."
"But Miss Hastings, the means of my wife matter little. I'm an extremely wealthy man."
"Look at me, sir. I must be a far cry from the beautiful, fashionable women you are accustomed to."
She spoke the truth. He had always associated with beautiful women, women far lovelier than she. They had all been fashionable, too. As his gaze locked with hers, he realized that while she was not a stunning beauty, she was subtly pretty. With fashionable clothing and accessories, she might become something quite above the ordinary. "As my wife, you would possess the most beautiful clothing, jewels, and furs in the kingdom."
Her eyes widened. She swallowed hard. "You make it very difficult to refuse."
"Good. Shall we set the date?"
"But I do refuse."
He did not respond for a moment. "You wound me, Miss Hastings. Spurned by two women in the same week. I shall have to do myself in."
"You're making this very difficult, Mr. Birmingham. Your offer is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me." She blew an impatient breath. "You've been so kind. I would never hurt you."
"Then you ought to marry me."
"One does not repay a rescuer's kindness by destroying one's rescuer."
"You think marrying you would ruin my happiness?"
She nodded. "You can't realize it now. Now you are too hurt by Maria's rejection. But pain lessens over time, and when it does you will want to love again. You'll want a wife worthy of you, and I'm not that wife."
"I beg that you not put me on some pedestal. I would wager I come from far more humble origins than you. Tell me, Miss Hastings, is there any member of your extended family who bears some kind of title?"
She bit her lip. "My mother's great uncle is Sir Arthur Lippincott, a baronet."
"There you have it! Your family’s more illustrious than mine."
"I still refuse to make your life miserable."
Why in the devil was he pleading with this woman to marry him? He'd never wanted marriage. Or, as Nick had told him at White's last night, he didn't want to marry until he met The One, and Emma Hastings was most certainly not The One. This woman was giving him the chance to bow out gracefully and preserve his cherished bachelorhood. Yet he kept begging her to marry him.
Had he taken leave of his senses? Since Maria had run off with Count Cuomo, he had been convinced he would never know happiness again. Why not bring some happiness into this lady's life? Even the small services he'd been able to perform for her today had made him happy. He would seek his happiness by helping to fulfill this young woman's dreams.
"It would give me great pleasure to be the author of your awakening womanhood, to introduce you to the world's greatest city, to have some small part in your transformation from pretty young thing from Upper Biddington to London's most fashionable matron."
"Barrington. Upper Barrington," she said with a mock indignation that
was belied by her furtive smile.
Ah, a smile! He'd managed to pull her from the doldrums! Perhaps his job was done. No need to keep hounding her to wed him.
Her voice sounded youthful when she wistfully said, "I had always hoped to marry for love."
So had he.
"But, my dear Mr. Birmingham, had I to choose between forfeiting love or forfeiting London, I choose to forfeit love."
Had she just accepted his offer of marriage? His stomach plummeted. Oh, God, what did he do now?
He took her hands in his and spoke huskily. "I hope to make you very happy, my dear."
"Please," she whispered hoarsely, "call me Emma."
"And you must call me Adam."
"It's not to be a real marriage, is it?"
"Of course. I will procure a special license and marry you at the earliest convenience. I will make all the proper financial settlement on you.”
“That’s not what I meant by a real marriage."
He suddenly understood. Unaccountably, his gaze flicked to her modest bosom. She was a woman, after all. And he was a man. He should have anticipated her query. "Quite right."
"What do you mean by quite right? Will you or will you not take your conjugal rights?"
How in the blazes did a girl from Upper Something or Other know the meaning of the word conjugal?
"I should think that one day you'll want children," she said.
Oh, God. He'd forgotten about that. He did want children one day. But he did not want to force himself on this poor maiden. "I shall conduct myself as a gentleman. The discussion of children can be dealt with at a time in the distant future."
As unsettled as he was, he needed to be pragmatic. He must discount that gloom which hung over him because he was entering a loveless marriage. He must back up his well-meaning proposal with a plan of action. The girl needed a strong, commanding man in her life right now, and that is exactly what he meant to be.
Despite his creeping misgivings.
"Well, then, my dear M-m-, er, Emma, I will need to procure a special license—and I shall need to install you in respectable lodgings until I have the honor of claiming you for my wife. You will, of course, stay here at my brother's opulentacious house. I think you will be happy with his wife. But before you do, I believe you would prefer looking a bit smarter."
