Her chin shot up, and she glared. “I have managed my life thus far entirely on my own and quite adequately as well.”
“That is debatable, Miss Townsend. However”—he heaved a long-suffering sigh—“the question is not so much one of your life and future, but of that of these girls. They are your only family, but much more importantly, you are all that they have.”
Chapter 2
Sons or husbands, young or old, men in general haven’t the least understanding of what they are supposed to do until we tell them.
Helena Pennington
“Don’t know why you didn’t have the blasted man come to see you.” The indignant voice of Reginald, Viscount Berkley, drifted up the stairs. “Bloody inconvenient, if you ask me.”
Marcus Holcroft, the eighth Earl of Pennington, bit back a grin and glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “I don’t recall anyone asking you.”
Reggie muttered something Marcus didn’t quite catch, and he chuckled.
“Come now, Reggie, it’s hardly an inconvenience. We were on our way to the club anyway, and this is but a few blocks from there. Besides, Whiting’s note said he had a matter of some urgency to discuss.”
“Precisely why he should have come to you. Something havey-cavey about all this,” Reggie said darkly.
“Nonsense.”
Even as he brushed aside Reggie’s warning, Marcus had to admit the summons from the man who had long served as his father’s solicitor and, in the seven years since his father’s death, as his own, was, at the very least, unusual. Whiting was not a man prone to rash impulse or undue emotion. Yet his missive betrayed an urgency at odds with the solicitor’s character, and Marcus could not ignore a nagging sense of unease. Far better to visit the man at once and discover what was afoot than waste time worrying about it.
“I daresay it’s nothing more than the requirement of a signature on one official document or other.” Marcus reached the third floor and glanced back at his friend. “Probably something involving a bit of property near Holcroft Hall that I have my eye on. The old dower house, actually. My father sold it years ago and I have been trying to get it back. I am in hopes that Whit—”
“Sir! If you please—”
An irate feminine voice assaulted his ears at nearly the same instant he smacked into a short but surprisingly firm female form. Marcus jerked his attention back to where he was going in time to reach out and steady the woman he’d just walked into.
“Pardon me, miss, I—”
“Unhand me at once!” Beneath her now askew hat, she glared up at him, blue eyes flashing, a blush of anger coloring a porcelain complexion, lips full and ripe. For a moment he could do nothing but stare down at her.
“Is your hearing as faulty as your ability to place one foot in front of the other?” She slapped his hand away.
“You have my abject apologies.” Marcus moved back and swept an exaggerated bow. “I should be well advised to watch my step in the future in the event yet another determined female should plow headlong into me.”
“I was scarcely the one doing the plowing. You were looking where you had been rather than where you were headed.” She straightened her hat and narrowed her lovely eyes. “Your sarcasm, sir, is neither necessary nor appreciated.”
“Really? How exceedingly odd,” he said in the droll manner he had honed through the years to a fine art. “I usually find sarcasm second only to wit in both need and appreciation.”
She stared, obviously suspicious as well as annoyed, and he tried not to laugh. It was apparent the young woman was trying to decide if he was merely impolite or actually deranged.
“Forgive him, miss.” Reggie nudged him aside and tipped his hat. “He fancies himself a great wit. Truth is, he hasn’t been the same since he was the victim of a horrible hunting accident last year.” Reggie leaned toward the woman, who eyed him with equal amounts of curiosity and trepidation. “You see, he was mistaken for a buck. Shot right in the—”
“Sir!” Shock rang in the lady’s voice but Marcus swore he saw what might be the tiniest glint of reluctant amusement in her eye.
“That’s quite enough,” Marcus said mildly. “And patently false as well. I can assure you I have never been shot in any part of my person, neither accidentally nor deliberately.”
“I find that exceedingly difficult to believe.” The young woman’s forbidding and vaguely familiar expression was unchanged, but now Marcus was certain she was, however unwillingly, amused. “I would not be at all surprised to learn more than a few shots have been directed at your person, for the arrogance of your manner if nothing else.”
Reggie laughed. “She’s got you there, old man.”
“Indeed she does,” Marcus said coolly.
Reggie grinned at her as if they were coconspirators. “Any number of people would like to shoot him, miss. It was no more than an entertaining fancy on my part that someone actually had.”
“My friend is easily amused.” Marcus stepped aside and nodded cordially. “I fear we have detained you far too long. Again, my apologies, miss.”
“Certainly.” She lifted her chin, marched past them, and proceeded briskly down the stairs.
Marcus watched her with his usual sense of appreciation for the sway of attractive hips and toyed with the passing notion that there was more to this woman than met the eye. Not that it was any of his concern, of course.
“She’s unaccompanied, Marcus.” Reggie’s gaze lingered on the figure rapidly vanishing down the stairwell. “Not so much as a maid with her. Odd, don’t you think? She’s well spoken enough, obviously a woman of quality.”
“Yes, but her cuffs were frayed,” Marcus said thoughtfully. “And her gown is sadly out of style.”
“Ugly as well. Too—”
“Proper? Stiff? Dull?”
“Exactly.” Reggie nodded. “Seems a pity. I’d wager there is a fetching figure beneath that drab gown and an intriguing story behind those eyes. She could well be the victim of dire circumstances beyond her control. And sorely in need of assistance, even rescue. Why, I should probably see—”
“You most certainly should not.” Marcus took his friend’s elbow firmly, steered him away from the stairs and down the corridor toward the solicitor’s office.
Viscount Berkley, Reginald, Reggie, was Marcus’s closest friend and his oldest. Their country estates were in the same county, and the men had grown up side by side. In many ways they were as alike as brothers. In others they couldn’t be more dissimilar.
Reggie had the most annoying tendency to imagine himself in the manner of a knight of old, rescuing fair maidens and damsels in distress. Most times the lady in question neither wanted nor needed the proffered rescuing and always Reggie offered his heart along with his assistance.
As for Marcus, he was certainly no rescuer of helpless females but he’d always had a fondness for mysteries and a corner of his mind lingered on the enigma presented by a pair of fetching eyes, a nicely rounded derrière and an air at odds with the obvious circumstances of her existence. It had been his experience that only women born to his own station in life ever met a gentleman’s gaze with the unflinching directness she’d displayed and even then, such women were exceedingly rare. In truth, the only other women he could recall ever speaking in so firm and direct a manner to him had been those entrusted with his care as a child. His mother, of course, nursemaids, governesses—
He chuckled. “I daresay your damsel in distress is more than capable of taking care of herself. In truth, I would wager a considerable sum the lady in question is used to navigating far more treacherous waters than even those presented by being unescorted on the streets of London. I suspect she’s accustomed to dealing with that most unpleasant form of life,”—he pulled open the door to Whiting’s outer office and grinned at his friend—“children.”
A scant two hours later, mysterious women, firm-spoken governesses, and helpless maidens were the last things on Marcus’s mind.
“It’s absurd, that’s what it is,” Reggie declared for perhaps the hundredth time, his level of indignation growing with his consumption of Marcus’s excellent brandy. “I cannot believe—”
“I can.” Marcus’s tone was wry. “My father always did have an interesting way of giving me just enough rope to hang myself.”
“Enough rope?” Reggie held out his again empty glass.
“Figuratively speaking, for the most part.” Marcus shrugged and refilled the viscount’s glass. The two were ensconced in the spacious library at Pennington House, the London residence of the Holcroft family and the earls of Pennington for the last two centuries, and the two friends’ personal sanctuary throughout the years of their majority. “What he has done now, without my knowledge, of course, is to allow me what he considered a reasonable amount of time—”
“Thirty years?” Reggie peered over the rim of his glass. “That would be the rope?”
“Exactly. A sufficient amount of time, in the eyes of many, to select a bride of my own choosing. That I have failed to accomplish that thus far means I now forfeit the right to do so.” Marcus leaned back against the edge of the desk and sipped at his brandy thoughtfully. “As much as I do not relish the idea of such a choice being taken from my hands, I must admit the way in which it has been done is remarkably clever.”
“Is it?”
“If I had known of this deadline for matrimony I might well have selected a wife on the basis of suitability alone. Position, finances, that sort of thing. My father, you see, was something of a romantic. Affection, even love if you will, would never have been a possibility if I had known of his plan. He was a great believer in engagements of the heart.” He chuckled. “Oh yes, he was exceedingly clever. I might have to perpetrate the same hoax on my own son someday.”
“See here, Marcus, I thought you were bloody angry about all this.”
“I was. No, I still am, but my ire is tempered with admiration.” He blew a long breath. “In truth, Reggie, he’s reached out from the grave and grabbed me by the—”
The door to the library slammed open and the dowager Countess of Pennington swept into the room like an unrelenting, ill wind.
“Marcus Aloysius Grenville Hamilton Holcroft, are you or are you not going to marry this girl?”
Reggie sprang to his feet in an interesting mix of terror and courtesy. The widow of the seventh Earl of Pennington often had that effect on those who did not see through her behavior, generally everyone except her late husband and her son. “Good evening, my lady. As always it is a pleas—”
Lady Pennington waved him quiet and halted a few feet from her only child. “Well? What’s it to be?”
“Good evening, Mother,” Marcus said mildly. He was eternally grateful he had not inherited his mother’s tendency toward overly dramatic displays of passion. “I see you have heard the news.”
“Of course I have heard. I was here when Mr. Whiting came by this morning with the horrible tidings. You, needless to say, were as usual nowhere to be found.”
“Imagine that.” Marcus tried not to smile at the accusation.
He loved his mother, as any good son should, but much preferred her at a distance. The mansion in London and Holcroft Hall in the country were large enough, and mother and son’s individual interests varied enough, to allow them to cohabit peacefully during those months of the year when it could not be avoided. He had long considered the purchase of a town house of his own, although, in truth, even when they were both in residence, their paths rarely crossed. Marcus thought, and he suspected his mother agreed, that was for the best.
“If you had not squandered your life thus far you would be married by now and, with any luck, already have an heir.” Lady Pennington glared as if Marcus’s failure to wed and reproduce was part of a grand scheme to deny her life meaning and fulfillment. “Now you have no choice.”
“Apparently not,” Marcus said.
“You do not seem overset at the prospect.” His mother studied him suspiciously. “Why on earth not?”
Marcus shrugged as if the idea of marrying a woman he had never so much as seen was of no consequence whatsoever and not one of the most infuriating prospects he had ever encountered. One from which he could see no means of escape.
“Your distress is sufficient for both of us.” He sipped casually at his drink.
“My distress is entirely appropriate given the dreadful nature of the situation.” Her eyes widened in dismay. “You do realize the consequences if you do not marry the Townsend girl, do you not? You will lose your entire fortune, every bit of it.”
“Yes, but I shall retain my title and the estate as well as this house.”
“Neither a title nor an estate is of any significance if you cannot keep them up,” she snapped. “And what of me, Marcus? Didn’t Mr. Whiting explain that I too will lose everything? All that your father left me? Funding, I should point out, that has allowed me to live without impinging on your resources. It has allowed me to live independently for the most part.” She paced to and fro across the width of the library. “I have not had to depend on your finances for every little thing. I have been able to make my own decisions, and you have been able to make yours. In truth, when I look at my friends who are completely dependent on their families for survival, I am eternally grateful for your father’s foresight.”
“As am I,” Marcus murmured.
Reggie edged toward the door. “Perhaps I should take my leave—”
“Stay right where you are, my lord. Reginald. Even though I daresay you are no better than he is. I know your own mother has quite despaired of you ever doing your duty and finding a suitable wife. Still, I do need someone to help him see that he has very little choice in this matter.” She forced a pleasant smile. “And you are apparently the best I can do.”
“Glad to help.” Reggie smiled weakly and glanced longingly at the brandy decanter on the desk.
Lady Pennington’s gaze followed his. “Oh, do fill your glass, my boy, and one for me as well. The situation fairly screams for spirits of some sort although something stronger than brandy is probably appropriate. I have been most distressed since I heard of all this and have had to face the most dire of fates.”
Marcus bit back a grin.
His mother’s gaze caught his. “You think I’m being overly dramatic, don’t you?”
“Perhaps a bit.”
“Only a bit?” She sank down on the sofa with a sigh and accepted a glass from Reggie. “Perhaps I am not being dramatic enough. It has come as quite a shock.”
“You didn’t know about this plot of Father’s, then?” Marcus studied his mother carefully.
She stared at him. “Of course not.”
Marcus wasn’t sure whether to believe her. His parents had always struck him as being extraordinarily close, more so than most husbands and wives. Theirs was obviously a love match. It was exceedingly odd that his father would not have shared something this significant with his wife. “He never mentioned this arrangement he had entered into?”
“Not a word,” she said blithely.
“Oh?” He raised a brow.
“Do not look at me like that, Marcus. I tell you I had no idea.” Her tone was firm. “First of all, I would never have approved of such a thing. I find the very idea of an arranged marriage distasteful and positively medieval. And secondly, had I known of your father’s plan, I should have told you long before now.”
“To allow you to pick out your own bride.” Reggie nodded.
“Exactly.” She cast his friend an appreciative smile. Reggie fairly swelled under her approval and beamed back at her.
“Damnably decent of you, Mother.”
“I think so.” She nodded in a smug manner and sipped at her brandy. For a moment she looked far younger than her eight and forty years and rather vulnerable as well. Ridiculous idea, of course. Helena, the dowager Countess of Pennington, was anything but vulnerable. She’d been very much his father’s partner as well as
wife.
From the moment Marcus had recognized that as a young boy he’d been rather pleased by the concept and vowed to forge a similar relationship with his own wife. The difficulty was in finding a woman who possessed the qualities of intelligence and competence necessary for such a position, as well as charm, passion, and, preferably, a fair face and figure. A woman who could capture his heart and his mind. In short, the perfect wife. A creature even he admitted could not possibly exist.
Of course, what he wanted no longer mattered.
“Did you look at this letter your father signed?” Lady Pennington studied her son. “Was it legitimate?”
“It appeared so.” Marcus nodded. “I know father’s signature as well as I know my own, and I have no doubt as to the authenticity of the letter. However, it simply laid out the bones of the agreement. Whiting had other documents detailing the fine points of this marriage bargain.”
“And did you examine those as well?” she said, a curious note in her voice.
Marcus waved away the question. “I glanced at them. It scarcely seemed necessary to do more. My fate is apparently sealed.”
“It might well be wise to have another solicitor look at it all.” Reggie’s manner was thoughtful. “Another eye might find a way out and—”
“Nonsense, Reginald, it would simply prolong the inevitable,” Lady Pennington said with a sigh. “Besides, Mr. Whiting has always acted in the best interest of Marcus and his father. Indeed, he has been of great assistance to me in the years since my husband’s passing.”
“I trust Whiting implicitly.” To Marcus’s knowledge, the man had never done anything that was not aboveboard, nor had his counsel ever been ill-advised. “If there was a graceful way out of this, I do not doubt Whiting would have found it already.”
Love with the Proper Husband Page 3
