Love with the Proper Husband

by Victoria Alexander

  “As I was saying, the annual income is not extensive but will allow you to live modestly. In addition, his legacy to you includes a small house in the country, near the village of Pennington.”

  “An income and a house.” She stared in disbelief for a long moment. “An income and a house?”

  “There’s more. Shall I go on?” Concern colored his face. “Are you certain you’re all right?

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. An income and a house? “I don’t believe I am.” At once the absurdity of it all struck her, and she laughed.

  “Miss Townsend?”

  “Oh, do wipe that look off your face, Mr. Whiting, I am not going mad. It’s simply…” She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to fully absorb the import of his words.

  She could not possibly explain to this relative stranger the relief, no, the joy of finding salvation where none is expected. A thought struck her, and any amusement vanished. “Why was I not informed of this before now?”

  “Miss Townsend, as I explained, Albert was—”

  “Albert be damned.” Abrupt, unrelenting anger pulled her to her feet. “You are the man my father trusted to handle his affairs, not your nephew. The fault here, Mr. Whiting, is yours and yours alone!”

  “Indeed it is. And I accept it. It is precisely why I paid for your passage home.” He too was on his feet. “My mistake was sending an inexperienced boy to begin handling the details of your father’s estate. I had no idea he would leap into it to the extent he did. He was not charged with informing you of anything whatsoever. In truth, I sent him to Townsend Park in advance of my arrival to do nothing more than begin sorting through your father’s papers, quite within the jurisdiction of my responsibilities as his executor. I joined Albert the next day, but you, my dear young woman, were already gone.”

  “What did you expect? My fears had all been realized. My father was dead.” She swiveled and paced before the desk, her words as much for herself as for him. “Yes, I’d spent much of my life away at school and I barely knew the man, but still he had always existed. I always knew he was there. And he did treat me kindly if without extreme affection. I had no reason to think he didn’t have some feeling for me, and I cared for him as well. I did not realize how much until he was gone. I was quite distressed by his passing.

  “In addition, I was about to be tossed out of my home. I was, in your nephew’s words, a penniless orphan with no prospects and no future save throwing myself on the mercy and generosity of a heretofore unknown cousin.”

  She stopped and met his gaze. “I had long ago determined that in this world, the only one you can truly count on is yourself. My parents were both dead, my sister long since gone; there was nothing to keep me at Townsend Park. You can scarcely blame me for leaving.” She stepped closer. “Every day of my life I was all too aware that should my father die when I was not yet wed, I would have nothing and no one to depend on but myself. And that, Mr. Whiting, is precisely what I did.”

  “And made it damnably hard to find you in the process,” Whiting snapped. “I tried, Lord knows how hard I tried. It took months to track you from Townsend Park to that blasted Frenchwoman’s house here in London—” He narrowed his eyes. “How did you manage that, penniless orphan that you were?”

  “I had some resources,” she said loftily. She had, for years, saved whatever spare money had come her way.

  He snorted. “No doubt. By the time I found your Madames Freneau and de Chabot—and I should at some point like a detailed accounting as to precisely how you know a woman of her dubious reputation—”

  “Mr. Whiting, Madame de Chabot is Madame Freneau’s sister-in-law. Madame Freneau was my teacher and remains my dearest friend. And both ladies have been exceedingly kind to me.” Given Mr. Whiting’s obvious disapproval of Madame de Chabot, it was scarcely necessary to mention Gwen had been staying with the women since her return to London two days ago. The man had control of her finances after all. Still…“Furthermore I do not owe an accounting to anyone, least of all you. I am not some errant child straight from the schoolroom—”

  “Aha!” He glared. “But that was precisely what you were at your father’s death. You were barely sixteen years of age, and I was named your guardian as well as executor of his estate. And, I should point out, the administrator of your income until such time as you marry.”

  “I have no need of a guardian now. I am of age.”

  “Nonetheless, I am still in control of your income and shall remain so until the day you wed or the day I die. Now.” He leaned forward in a distinctly menacing manner. “Sit down, Miss Townsend.”

  She started to protest, then thought better of it and sat.

  “By the time I managed to discover where you had resided in London, you had fled to America.” His eyes narrowed. “Imagine my surprise to discover I was no longer trying to find the sixteen-year-old daughter of a British lord but a twenty-year-old governess. A Miss”—he glanced at the papers before him—“no—a Mademoiselle…Fromage. Fromage?” He raised a brow. “Cheese?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she muttered. “It was Froumage.”

  “I see. Regardless, you did indeed manage to stay one step ahead of my efforts to locate you.” Again he glanced at the papers. “Your first position, in Philadelphia, lasted no more than a few months. Following that, you accepted a new position in Boston, again your employment was brief, as were your subsequent positions in Baltimore, Trenton, Philadelphia again, until your most recent in New York, where at long last, you stayed in one place long enough for my agents to catch up to you.” He glared. “It would have been far easier had you not continuously changed your name. The last one was…what?”

  “Piccard,” she murmured.

  “I’m assuming this was to avoid bad references?”

  She sighed in irritation and gazed innocently at nothing in particular, taking care not to meet his gaze. “My character is not overly suited to the position of governess. A deficit that was only enhanced by the tendency of Americans to produce remarkably ill-mannered and spoiled offspring.”

  At once it struck her that she would never have to be in that position again. She snapped her gaze back to Whiting’s, an odd note of awe in her voice. “I won’t ever have to do that again, will I?”

  “As I said before, Miss Townsend, the income is extremely modest, sufficient for your needs as an unmarried woman but nothing more. You will not be able to live in the style of Townsend Park, but no”—he smiled—“you will not have to seek employment of any kind.”

  For a long moment Gwen savored the sound of his words. Of all the things she had expected when she’d received his letter, this was not even imagined. Her anger had faded, wiped away by the dawning realization of her change in circumstances as well as her acceptance that the last five years were as much the result of her own impulsiveness as of Albert’s error.

  “Well, then, Mr. Whiting”—she flashed him a genuine smile and stood—“where is my money?”

  He rose to his feet and looked at her with a fair amount of amusement. “I am not finished, Miss Townsend. There’s more.”

  “More?” She plopped back in her chair and stared with astonishment. “More money?”

  Whiting laughed, and she had the good grace to blush.

  “Forgive me for sounding so…so mercenary, but”—she leaned forward—“in the span of a few short minutes I have gone from having nothing to having something, modest though it may be. And the thought of having more, well, it’s somewhat intoxicating.”

  “No doubt.” Whiting tried and failed to hide his amusement and once again resumed his seat. “However, while this has the potential to provide you with increased”—he cleared his throat—“finances, I’m not sure…” He paused and studied her carefully. “Right now you have an income that will continue until you marry. When you wed, contingent upon my approval of the match, there are funds that have been reserved for a respectable dowry as well as the settlement of a substantial
sum upon you personally. You will never have to worry about money again.”

  “Never again worry about money?” She shook her head. “It is an interesting idea if a bit difficult to grasp at the moment. However”—she chose her words carefully—“in order to achieve that freedom from financial want, I should have to sacrifice my own personal freedom.”

  “My dear woman, we are speaking of marriage, not prison.”

  “Is there a great deal of difference, Mr. Whiting?”

  “Most certainly,” he said with the indignation reserved for those who dare to question the principles of crown and country and other respectable institutions.

  “Oh?” She considered him carefully. “Are you married?”

  “That is neither here nor there.”

  She raised a brow.

  He sighed. “No.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “No. Nonetheless.” His tone was staunch. “It is a desirable state, much to be preferred by women.”

  “Not this particular woman.” She shook her head firmly.

  “Miss Townsend—”

  “It’s quite simple, Mr. Whiting. What I have seen of marriage through my life does not endear the institution to me.” She met his gaze directly. “For the upper classes, marriage is for no other reason than to cling to titles and property. My mother died when I was very young while trying to give my father a male heir—the only true purpose of their union. My sister’s marriage estranged her from her family and friends. I have no idea where she is, nor has she ever made any effort to contact me.”

  An uneasy look crossed Whiting’s face. “Miss Townsend—”

  She held out her hand to quiet him. “Mr. Whiting, do allow me to finish. Even if what I have seen in my own family did not dissuade me from the bonds of holy wedlock, what I have witnessed in the households of my employers has certainly done so.” She drew a deep breath. “I freely admit I am not an overly competent governess. In point of fact, with one or two exceptions, the children in my charge were not especially fond of me, and I confess, their lack of affection was returned. However, that was not the only reason I took leave of my employments.”

  She paused, not entirely sure how to say this. There was, and had been from the beginning, the strange feeling that perhaps all that had befallen her was somehow her fault. That she had not coiled her dark red hair tightly enough against her head, or she had not chosen clothing appropriately dull enough to conceal what to her dismay was an overly lush figure, or she had not been subservient enough to avoid the attention of men who saw an unmarried woman in her position as fair game for their lecherous pursuits.

  “In my first position, the head of the household, the father of my charges, believed my duties extended beyond attending to his children to attending to his own”—she grimaced—“needs. Suffice it to say I refused and left his employment at once.”

  “Damnation,” Whiting murmured.

  “I chose my second employer as carefully as he chose me. Unfortunately, I did not extend my scrutiny to his acquaintances, and there was a nasty incident late one evening when I rebuffed the advances of a houseguest who made his way to my quarters.” She shuddered at the memory of awaking in the night to groping hands and demanding lips. And fear. “I managed to discourage him with the help of a chamber pot.”

  “Good God!” Whiting stared in horror. “Were you all right?”

  “I escaped with my virtue intact; however, my employment did not survive.” She shrugged. “There were other instances in other positions and in each and every one, the gentlemen involved were married, yet that state did not deter their lecherous advances. At the very least, I should expect fidelity from a husband”—she shook her head—“and I have yet to meet a married man who understood that concept.”

  “Actually, Miss Townsend,” Whiting said slowly, “your father made arrangements for a specific husband.”

  “Did he?” For a moment she stared in disbelief. Then she laughed. “Mr. Whiting, if nothing else, this is most amusing. And gratifying as well to know that my father did indeed think enough of me to make such arrangements. Very well”—she grinned—“who did he have in mind?”

  “The Earl of Pennington.” Whiting shuffled through the papers on his desk. “Your father and the old earl were great friends in their youth. They agreed to a marriage between you and his son if you were both unwed when the boy reached his thirtieth year. It’s detailed in a letter signed by both men and delivered to me, as I also handled the earl’s affairs.”

  “And?”

  “And the thirtieth anniversary of his birth is fast approaching and he is not married.”

  “I see.” She thought for a moment. “Tell me, Mr. Whiting, do I lose my income, or my house, if I do not wed this earl?”

  He shook his head. “You forfeit nothing whatsoever. At least nothing you already have. It’s an exceedingly unusual arrangement as such things go. The old earl decided it was fair to allow his son to choose his own bride, yet he was only willing to give him so long to do so.”

  “Until he was thirty.”

  “Exactly.” Whiting nodded. “Your father, given your sister’s unsuitable marriage, was not quite as willing to let you choose your husband but bent to the wishes of the earl in light of what would be a most favorable match for you. Besides, when the earl’s son turned thirty you would be one and twenty and if you were not yet married—”

  “I too would need assistance,” she said dryly.

  “I am glad you understand.” He picked up and discarded several papers, then found the one he wanted. “Here is where it becomes awkward.”

  “Only here?”

  He ignored her. “The earliest you and the young earl were to be made aware of this arrangement was three months before his birth date. Once you were informed, the only way to receive the dowry I mentioned previously, and the settlement, is to marry according to your father’s wishes.”

  “So”—she chose her words carefully—“if I had married as late as this morning, or if I had accepted Albert’s proposal just a few minutes ago, I would have received this substantial settlement. But as of this moment, the only way to get that is to marry this thirty-year-old gentleman who cannot find a bride on his own?”

  Whiting frowned. “I would not have put it quite like that but yes, that is essentially accurate.”

  “Is he fat, Mr. Whiting? Or ugly? Does he have too much stomach and not enough hair?”

  The solicitor pressed his lips together in disapproval. “Most certainly not. The earl is quite handsome but beyond that, he is considered a match much to be desired.”

  “Not for me. I shall have to do without the handsome, desirable earl. I shall be quite happy to live on my modest income, which is far better than I had ever hoped for, in my new house near the village of”—she started—“did you say Pennington? As in the Earl of Pennington?”

  “Indeed I did. While your property is less than an acre, it does abut his.”

  “How very clever of my father. What a pity I did not know him better. Nonetheless, I will not marry a stranger even for a substantial settlement.” Once again she got to her feet. “Now then, Mr. Whiting…” The look on his face pulled her up short. “There is more, isn’t there?”

  He nodded, and she sighed and sat back down.

  “This is not at all pleasant and I’m not entirely sure how to say it.” Apprehension creased Whiting’s forehead. “Miss Townsend, it is with deep regret that I must inform you of the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Loring, your sister and her husband.”

  The words hung in the air, so unexpected Gwen could not comprehend them for a long moment. Without warning, pain sharp and relentless stabbed through her, and she nearly gasped aloud. She had never known this woman, this sister, who had never made any effort to contact her. Why should Gwen care about Louisa’s fate now?

  “…drowned as I understand it, a shipwreck I think, but that information was rather vague. Somewhere in the South Seas, Polynesia, perhaps
, or…”

  But she did, far more than she had ever dreamed she would.

  “…more than a year ago now, however…”

  Perhaps it was because as long as she had a sister somewhere, Gwen would never be truly alone in the world.

  “…the children were not…”

  Now she was.

  “…taken in by missionaries, I believe, then finally sent on to England…”

  Children?

  Gwen’s attention jerked back to him. “What children?”

  “Your sister’s children.” He glanced at his papers. “Three of them. Girls.” He looked at her. “I gather you didn’t know she had children?”

  Perhaps she was not alone after all. “What has become of them?”

  “They are currently residing in the country”—reluctance sounded in his voice—“with your cousin. At Townsend Park.”

  “They are well taken care of, then,” she said slowly, her calm demeanor belying the turmoil inside her. Townsend Park. Home. How ironic that her sister’s children were now living in the very place their mother had left without a second thought.

  “It would appear so.” His manner was noncommittal. Too much so.

  She narrowed her eyes and studied him, but his expression matched his tone. In the back of her mind she noted this very characteristic probably made him an excellent solicitor.

  “What are you not saying, Mr. Whiting?”

  “It’s not my place to say anything, Miss Townsend.”

  “I suspect that will not stop you.”

  “Very well. Save for your cousin, a remote relation if I recall correctly, you have no family. It would be most appropriate for you to call on your nieces and make their acquaintance. Ascertain for yourself their state.” His tone remained aloof, but his gaze was intense. “Besides, regardless of one’s courage or strength or self-reliance, it is exceedingly difficult to travel through life alone. Especially for young women.”