The Earl's American Heiress (HQR Historical)

by Carol Arens

  He would be a chaperone as well as anyone.

  “No—I took—” He shot a sidelong glance at the footman, who gave every indication of being deaf and dumb. Still, when Fencroft spoke it was in a whisper. “I took unfair advantage of you. Please forgive me.”

  “I imagine I must since we are to—” No—she was not going to be the one to bring up the proposal. It was up to him to do it. “—to take tea together.”

  If only Heath Cavill was not the most handsome man she had ever seen, she might have come up with something a bit more witty to say. Sadly, looking into those somber blue-green eyes made her somewhat blank-minded. Except for the part of her mind that continued to wonder what that kiss would have been like.

  Perhaps when he went down on one knee she would find out. She imagined sealing an engagement with a kiss would be appropriate.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat as if the words he meant to say had somehow gotten tangled up. “I’ve come for a particular reason.”

  Best to get it over and done with, she supposed. Things were what they were and it was time to move forward.

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a delicate little box with a bow on it.

  Clementine felt as nervous as the earl looked. It was not every day that a lady became engaged. She smiled and, to her surprise, the gesture felt natural. She’d always known Grandfather’s fortune would have a big part in whom she married. And just now, she thought—just maybe—she was not sorry about it.

  If the butterflies in her middle and the quick thump of her heart were anything to go by, she was half-pleased.

  Given that she had been all but trapped into this marriage, she might be feeling a good deal worse about it.

  Heath Cavill tugged the satin bow between his thumb and his finger for a moment before he handed the package to her.

  He made no move to kneel. No, he simply leaned forward a bit, his elbows braced on his knees and his gaze intent upon her face.

  Did the aristocracy not go down on bended knee to propose? Or was it because she was an American and a commoner that he did not?

  She felt her smile sag a bit at the thought.

  “Please, will you accept this gift as a token of my regret?”

  Regret?

  At asking for her hand?

  If she didn’t need something for her hands to do while she thought of how to respond, she might not have opened the gift.

  Had he changed his mind about the marriage since he’d spoken to Grandfather? From all she knew he could not. Not without leaving himself bankrupt.

  “Thank you,” she said of the comb she cupped in the palm of her hand. It was a pretty thing, etched with gold flowers and embedded with a swirl of tiny pearls. “It’s very lovely.”

  Lovely, but far from the engagement ring he ought to have presented.

  She stood up, signaling that the visit was at an end.

  The earl stood after she did. Stepping around the cart, he leaned close. Inappropriately close, in her opinion, since they were not engaged.

  He took the comb from her fingers, stared at it for a moment while caressing the pearls with his thumb.

  Evidently he was regretting parting with the bauble.

  She frowned because, really, any other expression would have been false.

  He needn’t worry about the loss since she had no intention of keeping it—not without the courtesy of a proper proposal first.

  Turning, she intended to regally walk from the parlor, then run upstairs to her bedroom and quite possibly weep, but he caught her hand, flesh to flesh.

  “One moment, Clementine.” He placed the comb in her hair and secured it behind her ear.

  She watched the muscles in his throat constrict, go slack and then constrict again.

  “It looks as lovely on you as it did on my mother.”

  * * *

  Heath stood on the balcony of his bedroom, enjoying the sunset—or so he told himself. Had that been the truth he’d have been gazing west at the fire-red ball dipping below the tree line, not at Miss Macooish’s flame-hued hair as she sat on a bench beside the fountain.

  With the wind rising, strands blew loose from her mound of curls in a glorious crimson fury. With her posture straight and her hands folded demurely in her lap, was she a tigress or a kitten? He could not decide. She might be either or both. What she was, was unexpected.

  Only a short time ago his only worry was behaving like a proper earl. Standing here now, he was trying to sort out how he would be a husband.

  The special license was in the hands of his solicitor and, curse it, he had yet to propose!

  Any man worthy of Miss Macooish would have asked for her hand right away after speaking to her grandfather.

  Ordinarily, having been granted Macooish’s permission to wed would have been all the formality needed. The deal would have been made no matter the lady’s opinion on it.

  But Miss Macooish was far from ordinary. Clearly she expected a proper proposal, where she would have a yes or no say in the matter.

  That was what she had expected when he’d given her the gift of his mother’s comb yesterday. In his mind it had been a peace offering of the most precious kind.

  His sister had warned him that it would not be well received, not when the heiress was expecting an engagement ring. Olivia insisted that the gift must be presented after the engagement was agreed to.

  Olivia had also pointed out that he needed to put the scandal behind them and soon, else Miss Macooish would take her fortune and return to America.

  He was an oaf.

  Grunting, he squashed the urge to flee to Derbyshire, to forget everything and walk the peaceful pastures along with the sheep.

  Obviously, the duty set before him in the moment was to make things right with the beautiful woman below.

  With a decisive turn, he left the balcony and walked across his chamber, snatching up the ring that had been displayed on his bureau for two days.

  Going down the stairs he felt he walked a razor’s edge between the conflicting duties of being Lord Fencroft, protecting helpless children and becoming a husband. He’d turned into a puzzle in which the pieces did not match up.

  He crossed the patio and stepped over the low stone wall, determined to seal his fate. Officially, anyway, since he’d actually done it when he’d indulged in temptation in the Guthries’ garden.

  Miss Macooish sat with her back to him, her face angled toward the side, and that strong, lovely nose lifted to catch the light of the fading sun.

  With her eyes closed, she mumbled something. The wind, growing more boisterous by the second, ruffled the pages of what appeared to be a journal resting on her knees. She clenched a pencil in her fingers and, looking down, tried to write something on the snapping pages.

  “Good evening, Miss Macooish.”

  She snapped the notebook closed while pivoting on the bench to look up at him.

  “Good evening, my lord.” She smiled, but somehow the gesture did not reflect pleasure in seeing him. “I trust you had a pleasant day.”

  “Most pleasant. I trust yours was, as well.”

  “Indeed.”

  This might be the stiffest conversation he had ever been a part of.

  “May I sit?”

  “You may.”

  This was not quite a gracious invitation to share the sunset, but he took it anyway and sat down on the bench beside her. Maybe a bit of friendly conversation would help.

  He had come to propose but he couldn’t simply blurt it out, not with the brittleness between them at the moment.

  “What is that you are writing?” he asked.

  “Oh, just some observation on the sunset. I’m one for preserving my more poetic thoughts. I used to share them with my students back in Los Angeles.”

  “You were a teac
her?”

  “Happily so, until Madeline ran away.” And she ended up bound to his title. He heard the words even though she did not speak them.

  “And what did you do, my lord?” The false smile fell away. Her expression softened. “Before the sad loss of your brother?”

  “I suppose you would call me a farmer, at the heart of it. I saw to the running of the estate in Derbyshire. Tended the crops and the livestock, helped the tenants.”

  “I’m sorry for both of your losses. You must grieve terribly for your brother and for the life you knew.”

  “Yes, London and Derbyshire are vastly different from each other. Life is different. And my brother? Everyone liked him. You would have, I’m certain.”

  “I like you.”

  She did?

  Probably. The smile she gave him seemed sincere.

  “I appreciate the gift of your mother’s comb. It’s very beautiful and I’m afraid I was not as appreciative as I ought to have been.”

  “I might have bungled my intentions.”

  A gust of wind rippled the surface of the pond, rushed between them with a chill that hinted of autumn.

  “Would you read it to me—what you just wrote?”

  In the dimming light, he thought he saw her blush, but she opened the notebook, sighing. “If you are sure you want to hear it?”

  “Please.”

  She shrugged. “‘Leaves, dried from the first bite of autumn, tumble over stones. The orange-red glow of the sun sinks behind lush garden trees. A sight of great beauty, stifled and choked by stinging, yellow fog.’”

  “In Derbyshire, the air is always fresh—” He looked north, imagining the emerald pastures, the soft shadows of sunset. “The air in Los Angeles isn’t tainted?”

  She shook her head. “Sometimes the breeze comes in off the ocean so fresh that it seems you are standing on the seashore.”

  “Would that we could fly away like we spoke of, Miss Macooish.”

  “Like a pair of free-sailing birds?”

  “Just so.” If only it were truly possible.

  The wind seemed to be coming from east and west at the same time, swirling about the garden like a dervish. They ought to go inside, but he’d come out here for a purpose and would not retreat until it was accomplished.

  Reaching inside his pocket he went down on one knee.

  “Miss Macooish, will you do me—”

  All at once a great gust caught the journal, spun it up and away.

  Miss Macooish jumped up from the bench, reaching for it even though the flapping pages were well beyond her reach.

  He made a lunge for it but the notebook twirled higher as if carried by an invisible fist. It snagged in the crook of a tree branch ten feet above the bench.

  He bent his knees, leaped and caught the lowest branch. He hauled himself up, limb by limb. It seemed suddenly urgent to rescue what was clearly very important to her.

  The V the book was wedged into lay at least nine feet out of his reach. Lying flat, he scooted along the limb, pretty certain he looked like an inchworm making slow but determined progress.

  He glanced down once. Clearly, the similarity hadn’t escaped Miss Macooish. Why else would she be quietly laughing while trying to hide her mouth behind her hands?

  She could not hide her eyes. Nor could he guard his heart against the green merriment flashing in them. The woman had him entranced.

  How had that happened?

  Reaching out, he snatched the flapping pages and held the book with his teeth while he scooted backward over the limb. It was risky business with the wind whipping the tree every which way.

  At last he bumped against the trunk. He made his way to the bottom branch.

  The endeavor was more taxing than one would expect. His energy was spent. He rested a moment with his cheek on the buffeted branch, a position that brought him face-to-face with his intended.

  He plucked the notebook from his mouth and handed it to her. Surely it was his imagination that she tapped her fingers over the spot where his lips had been?

  Surely so.

  “Thank you, brave sir.” She pressed the journal to her heart.

  If he had ever seen a woman more appealing he could not recall the event. With half of her hair in tidy curls and the remainder lashing about her face; her cheeks nipped pink by the slapping wind; and laughter sparking in her eyes—he could not be blamed for being more than a little overcome.

  A strand of her hair blew against his mouth. He caught it and twirled it around his finger.

  “Miss Macooish—Clementine—will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  She tipped her head, gazing at him intently while the fate of the Fencroft estate teetered upon her answer. “Do you mean to kiss me?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Oh, then by all means, I will marry you, my lord.”

  He thought he felt the branch give, maybe even heard a crack, but in the moment all he could think about was her mouth. He wanted to feel her lips, to nibble them and see if they were as warm, as moist as he thought they were.

  Leaning forward, he tasted her, indulging in the dizzy sensation.

  And there it was, proof that she was every bit as sweet as he’d feared she would be. No matter, he would enjoy the intimacy this once and then never again.

  The pleasure of the marriage bed would be denied him—and her. It wasn’t right, but what could he do? There would be times when he would need to leave her bed—how would he explain it?

  What he did in the night was considered a heinous crime. If he was caught and she knew about it, she would be condemned along with him.

  No. It was essential for him to stay out of her bed altogether. For her sake she was, and would remain, forbidden—even as a legally wed bride.

  At least until he found a way to shut Slademore House down.

  When he drew back and looked into her eyes, Heath’s heart nearly stopped. He feared abstinence would prove to be impossible.

  All at once the branch snapped at the trunk and dumped him on the ground.

  “Oh!” Miss Macooish knelt beside him, lightly brushing her fingertips over a fresh swelling on his forehead. “Are you hurt again, my lord?”

  “Heath,” he clarified. “Call me Heath.”

  He would have that familiarity of her if nothing else.

  Chapter Six

  Eleven a.m., September 1, 1889. The grand entry at Fencroft House

  Clementine stood beside Heath at the head of the reception line, a married woman of one hour.

  Grandfather was aglow, his grin as wide as the Cheshire cat’s.

  The only one grinning wider would be the seamstress who had accepted a huge sum to put off her other customers in order to create a gown to rival the one the Queen’s granddaughter, Princess Louise, had worn in July. One could only guess that Grandfather had spent a fortune on just the pearls decorating it.

  Of course, Clementine could not confront Grandfather about the cost, given that she was the one to have asked for a few pearls to be sewn on the collar and cuffs—as a simple complement to Heath’s mother’s comb. She hadn’t expected a few pearls to become a sweeping expanse across the skirt and around the hem.

  While walking up the aisle of the church, she had the distinct sensation of gliding within a shimmering white cloud.

  In that moment Grandfather had moisture standing in his eyes. Apparently he was overcome by giving her away in marriage, like he had always dreamed of.

  Oddly, for an instant she thought she saw moisture spark in her groom’s eyes as well, which had to be a trick of candlelight, since she was not likely the bride he had dreamed of.

  And was there someone he had dreamed of? A lady he had wanted to marry but now, because of circumstance, could not?

  Who among the guests mi
ght she be? She scanned the crowd looking for a young lady gazing at her groom in forlorn misery.

  She did not see one young lady, but several.

  With a start she realized that she was—although she did not know how it could be, but yes, certainly she was—resentful of their longing gazes.

  “You’re frowning, Clementine,” Heath murmured in her ear. “Are you so unhappy?”

  Was she? Perhaps she had been forced into this marriage, but seeing genuine care in his expression, watching the lines of his forehead crease over eyes the color of deep turquoise, she could not say for sure that she was. Only time would tell for certain.

  “We can speak of it later.”

  In the bridal chamber. She felt heat rise from her chest, curl up her neck and flood her cheeks. Now that she was a married woman she no longer had to dash away the thoughts that flitted through the mind of a maiden.

  “Are you sure you are well?” He swiped the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “You feel warm.”

  Indeed.

  “Later,” she whispered and had the distinct impression that he saw her thoughts, every tantalizing one of them.

  Oddly, her new husband was frowning. From all she had ever heard, a man looked forward to his wedding night—intensely.

  “Heath, this is talk for another time. And look, here comes Lady Guthrie. Let’s put on our brightest smiles so that she does not think she made a terrible mistake.”

  He glanced down the line of well-wishers, saying something when he spotted the duchess. But he said it without sound, moving only his lips.

  From her time spent as a teacher, Clementine had learned to read the lips of her students quite well.

  So she had no doubt that what he had silently uttered was “I do not believe that she did.”

  And why would that make her suddenly feel that she was, once again, not touching the floor but floating within her cloud of pearls and satin?

  Truly, at times life made no sense whatsoever.

  * * *

  Looking into his bride’s eyes, sensing the thoughts in her mind and feeling his body react to those thoughts made Heath wonder how he was to approach this marriage.