Lord Avery's Legacy

by Allison Lane

  Anger exploded through his head. He grabbed the mobcap and hurled it into the ditch. “Don’t blame me for your own stupidity. I’ll have you know I have excellent eyesight. And I never drive on the wrong side.”

  She stared at the crest that gleamed on his curricle. “Dear God! Another arrogant lord!” she snorted, throwing up her arms. “One would think a man of your age would have outgrown reckless driving.”

  “There is nothing reckless about my driving,” he swore. “I belong to the Four-in-Hand Club. My skills are unmatched.”

  “By a two-year-old perhaps, though even that is doubtful. Only your conceit is unmatched. No man of sense would race around a blind corner on an unfamiliar road. Did you forget that this is a public thoroughfare? Men of your stamp seem to believe that the world exists solely for their own pleasure.”

  “So quick to judge when you know nothing about me.” He fisted his hands to keep from strangling her.

  “I know enough, sir. You are a pompous, conceited lecher who belongs in Bedlam for expecting an apology because I failed to die at your hands. Why don’t you go to Spain? With your talent for creating mayhem, Napoleon wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “How dare you insult your betters? Has no one taught you your place? But who can expect propriety of redheads?”

  She laughed, the carefree peal sending his temper flaring even higher. “You lack anything approaching intelligence, a misfortune confirmed every time you open your mouth. You recklessly run me down, assault me, blame me for your own misdeeds, and then claim to be my better? You really are insane.”

  “Termagant!” He stepped forward, fists raised.

  “Go ahead. Hit me again! I’m not armed. Maybe you can break a bone this time instead of merely destroying a batch of pottery.”

  This had gone too far already, he decided, ruthlessly suppressing his fury as he climbed into his curricle. “We are both unharmed,” he stated coldly, “so there is no need to stand about quarreling like fractious children.”

  “You started it! The least you can do is pay for the damage. How am I supposed to put food on the table if I have to replace these myself?” She pointed to the basket still half buried in the ditch.

  He grimaced. “And what inflated price do you claim that trash to be worth?”

  “Supercilious, as well.” Her eyes sparked dangerously. “This trash, as you call it, may never grace your table, but that does not diminish its quality. It commands considerable respect from those who must earn their own living and cannot afford to dine from golden plates or sip from crystal goblets. But a man who never lifts a finger to provide for himself can hardly understand that. Give me your direction, and I will send an accounting – unless you care to wait while I do an inventory? It won’t take long.”

  “This should cover it.” Not trusting his control if he remained a moment longer, he pulled out his purse and threw a handful of coins at her feet. “What is your name?”

  “Penelope Wingrave.” She glared.

  “I might have known such a harridan would be named Penelope.” He snatched up the ribbons. “Is this the road to Tallgrove?”

  “I might have known you were a friend of those people,” she growled, matching his disdain. “You would be better served by leaving the district at once. But if you insist on calling there, tell your hosts to mind their own business and stay away from me and mine!”

  “I can’t imagine they would have anything to do with you. Even the lowliest Averys have some standards.” He whipped the horses to a gallop and escaped. Insufferable female! How dare she brangle with a lord? He despised temper fits, and she had just treated him to a pattern-card tantrum. He reviewed her words, his fury growing at her temerity. He would have to be more careful what he wished for. Simpering, fawning widgeons looked considerably better after this brush with Penelope Wingrave’s brand of candor. So why was his body still painfully aware of hers?

  But within a mile his conscience rebelled against his mental diatribe. In retrospect, his own behavior had been insupportable. He had never in his life behaved so dishonorably. Publicizing this fracas would permanently damage his reputation. He may have rued being thought cold, stodgy, and hard to please, but a suggestion that he assaulted strangers would be worse.

  What had come over him? Lust was alien to his nature. He had needs, of course, and satisfied them discreetly – so discreetly that only Mark was aware of his mistress. But never before had he been overwhelmed by desire. And lusting after a sharp-tongued peasant was ridiculous, especially one caked in mud from head to toe, and who dripped water every time she moved. Devil take it! She was a mess!

  He glanced down at his caped driving coat and grimaced. The wet patches on his shoulders were bad enough, but clearly imprinted on the front was a muddy female shape, easily recognizable to the dullest intellect. He shuddered, reliving every detail of the impact. Pulling to a halt, he tore it off and stuffed it under the seat. Arriving in such damning evidence would seriously undermine his authority.

  Perhaps his reaction was rooted in terror – and the galling knowledge that she had been right. He had indeed been driving too fast. Exasperated over the delays, his aunt’s summons, and his growing sense of danger, he had pressed the horses to their limits to relieve his tension. His heart had nearly stopped when his negligence tossed the woman in the ditch in seemingly fatal fulfillment of his premonitions. His euphoric relief that she was intact had destroyed his usual control.

  He forced himself to believe it and to ignore the lingering heat where her breasts had pressed into his chest. He was the Marquess of Carrington, not some drunken lout ready to tumble the nearest tavern wench.

  Had he injured her? Caught in the emotions of the moment, he had neglected to ask. He had seen no sign of damage, but the nearside horse had hit her. He should have escorted her home. At the very least, he should inquire after her in the morning – and apologize.

  The idea left him shuddering. Whatever malady had afflicted him was still very much in force. His groin strained against his pantaloons, sending new heat racing through his blood.

  Enough!

  Suppressing memory of the encounter, he braced himself to greet his aunt. The accident had not been the event he feared after all. His presentiment of danger was still alive and growing.

  * * * *

  Penelope watched the infuriating lord disappear before bursting into tears. When her knees could no longer support her, she sank to the road and rested her head in her hands.

  The incident had been ridiculous from first to last. When the curricle had appeared, she had been carrying a basket of cups home from the pottery. Not only was he moving too fast for safety, but he had swung wide on the corner. And she had jumped too late. A sizable bruise was already forming on her thigh.

  She tried to forget the ensuing brangle. How could she have behaved so outrageously? She was known throughout the district for her serenity, good sense, and practical reactions to trouble. No one was better able to keep their head in a crisis. So how could she explain her utter loss of control? He had looked concerned when he stopped, yet she had allowed her mental imprecations to emerge into the light of day, then fallen apart from a simple caress.

  She shuddered. It was not the first time she had been touched. When she’d been nineteen, Jeremy Jacobson, son of the squire, had professed his undying devotion, spending half an hour nuzzling her in the garden during the local assembly. His adoration had not survived her lack of dowry, of course. Or her responsibility for raising her siblings. He had returned from Bath the following winter with a giggling bride whose fortune excused having more hair than wit. That had been a lasting lesson. Without assets and encumbered by her siblings, she was unmarriageable – except to one aging lecher who was so desperate to find a mother for his six children and a replacement for his housekeeper that he would have accepted a dozen siblings and a mountain of debt. If she had been beautiful, she might have surmounted those obstacles, but she was not. Men did not admire red hair
or tall women. They seemed to like her overgenerous bosom, but only because they thought it denoted loose morals. This odious lord was merely the latest example.

  She had donned spinster’s caps within a month of Jeremy’s return, claiming they increased her stature with tradesmen. His scorn for her eccentricity incited enough anger that she had thrown off self-pity. And he had continued his ridicule long after the neighbors ceased noticing the change. Perhaps his antagonism covered guilt for choosing money over affection.

  Imbecile! she chided herself. Only a hopeless romantic would cling to such a fantasy eight years after the fact. The truth was painfully obvious. Though she possessed a body that men lusted after, she was not a woman any gentleman could genuinely care for. She thickened the barrier around her heart that allowed her to flirt without risking emotional involvement – as with Sir Francis, who did not even pretend serious intentions. She enjoyed their lighthearted repartee and had even allowed him to kiss her once, but she had never been in danger of losing herself in his arms.

  What a horrible thought! She jumped to her feet. Surely she had not lost herself to the arrogant stranger! His caress had been insulting, clearly that of a libertine. She could not possibly regret cutting it off before he could draw her back against that hard-muscled body. Flames flickered on her cheeks until she feared the heat would cause scars. Tingles emanated from every spot that had touched him. Her knees collapsed, depositing her back on the road.

  “How could you?” she scolded herself.

  He was certainly nothing to look at. His face was filthy and sported several days’ growth of stubble. His coat had been dirty even before the accident, and his boots were caked in mud. The odors clinging to his body – horse, sweat, stale beer, and more – would have taken awhile to build up. A gypsy sleeping in cow byres and under hedges could not have looked worse. In fact, if not for the crest, she would never have pegged him as a lord.

  And his behavior was insulting. She was firmly on the shelf and was wearing the old cap and gown she used at the pottery. Both were now dripping mud and water. So either his attack was meant to chastise her for being in his way, or it was yet another example of arrogant conceit. Did he think his touch would compensate her for her injuries? Or had he expected to drive the memory of his idiocy from her mind?

  “Ass!” she muttered darkly, adding some even less ladylike epithets for good measure. “Libertine!” The man must be the most notorious rake in the realm to have affected her so strongly. At least his driving coat would never be the same.

  She giggled, diverting her attention to business.

  The pottery was a total loss. Fury returned as she gathered the scattered coins. Condescending toad! Two pounds ten – three times what the cups were worth. Another insult. He had not even bothered to count the money. Now she must discover his name. Never would she accept charity – especially from him! His behavior was even more provoking, more insolent, and more unwarranted than Lord Avery’s had been, may the late viscount roast for all eternity. And now Terrence was sniffing around Alice. Was he determined to continue his father’s odious plots?

  Tears again threatened. She had barely managed to deflect the father. How was she to counter the son? Winter House was all Michael had.

  * * * *

  “Guess what, Penny!” exclaimed Alice the moment Penelope entered the house. “You’ll never guess in a million years! Oh, I cannot believe it.”

  “Calm down, Allie,” she urged, setting her basket in the corner and pulling her muddy shawl closer to hide the rip in her gown. His gray eyes had darkened as he gazed at that tear, the pupils blurring very strangely just before he had touched her. Her breasts tightened. Appalled, she thrust the memory away.

  “Good heavens! What happened?” demanded Alice, taking in her sister’s appearance.

  “I fell in the ditch. Perhaps I should change before we talk. At least it is warm enough that I needn’t fear a chill.”

  “As if you ever would!”

  Penelope hurried up the stairs. Her reluctance to describe the encounter was as irritating as the meeting itself. He deserved to have his improprieties known. Spreading the tale might allow other girls to avoid his pawing. But she did not want to douse Alice’s obvious excitement. The girl had so few pleasures.

  She washed and donned another gown, grateful that the bruise was not as bad as she had initially thought.

  “What happened?” she asked Alice half an hour later when they were ensconced in the drawing room with a tea tray. Michael was supervising the peach harvest, throwing himself enthusiastically into estate work as he always did when he was home from school. Every year he was able to take on more. Soon he would assume complete control. Pride in his achievements battled a flash of jealousy and an unaccustomed terror at the rapid passage of time. She was already feeling old.

  “Terry wants to marry me!” Alice burst out, a smile almost consuming her face. “He loves me as much as I love him. Oh, I never dreamed that he could actually return my feelings.”

  “Surely he is young to consider settling down,” she managed, stunned into near silence. “He is only twenty.”

  “I know, and he must get permission from his guardian, who is due to arrive any day now, but that is a mere formality.”

  Penelope took a long sip of tea while she groped for a response. Such an alliance was appalling. Terrence could not truly want to wed Alice – not that she was unlovable. She was beautiful and sensible beyond her seventeen years, but even love did not justify a mésalliance, so he must have other reasons for ignoring the rules of his class. Yet Alice would not believe ill of him. Her eyes were clouded by infatuation, seeing only what she wanted to see.

  She should have expected this maneuver. By bypassing Alice’s guardian, Terrence hoped to force acceptance of his suit before discussing financial questions. He could then demand Winter House as her dowry by threatening to jilt and ruin Alice if they refused. Had the previous Lord Avery contrived this plot, or had Terrence concocted it on his own? More importantly, why did the Averys want the estate? It was barely self-sufficient and would hardly enhance Tallgrove’s prestige. Yet the previous viscount had gone to great lengths to persuade her to sell and even greater lengths to force that sale when she refused.

  Over her dead body! Alice’s happiness was paramount, of course, but she would never find it at Tallgrove. Not only was Terrence’s affection suspect, but Lady Avery hated all Wingraves, disseminating false rumors and demanding ostracism that estranged them from much of local society. Any hostess choosing whether to invite a viscountess or a former clergyman’s daughter wasted little time pondering the options. She would never countenance placing her sister in proximity to the woman.

  But speculation of the Avery motives could not distract her from Alice’s other statement. Her obnoxious assailant had asked the way to Tallgrove, so he must be Terrence’s guardian. And that was good. His arrogance would condemn Alice out of hand. Not even Winter House could compensate for such a match. She normally despised blind judgment, but this time it was a blessing. With his opposition virtually guaranteed, she need only postpone any decision.

  “I am delighted that you have found someone you care for,” she said calmly. “But it would not be wise to jump into a betrothal just yet. Terrence must return to school in another month. A formal decision can wait until he finishes his studies.”

  “Are you implying that he will change his mind?”

  “Of course not. Nor am I doubting you. But you are both young. There is no rush to marry. Since that would not be possible for at least a year, I would prefer to keep the attachment nonbinding until a later date. After all, he has been home for less than a month. His last visit was all of three years ago. You need more time to make sure that his character is what it appears to be.”

  “You don’t trust us!”

  “Fustian! I merely want to assure your happiness. He seems to be a personable young man, but there are things he has yet to learn. His father let their es
tate fall into considerable disrepair. How does he plan to address that problem? Are his finances able to cover both improvements and the acquisition of a wife? What will his mother and sister think of this match? You will all have to live together. Even if his mother moves into the dower house, you still must deal with her. Does he understand about your dowry? These are all serious questions. We needn’t rush to get the answers, but all must be addressed before you commit yourself to the union. You know you would fret over a husband who ignored his duty to his tenants as Lord Avery has done for so long. Terrence has yet to show that he is any different. By taking the time to consider all aspects of his character, you will assure your own happiness. Even love cannot counter some defects.”

  “He knows I have no dowry, but that makes no difference. Millicent will not be a problem – and she will marry in a year or two, so she can do little to affect my future. It is true that his mother dislikes me, though that is rooted in general dislike of all of us, so I believe that as she comes to know me, we will reach an accommodation.”

  Dear Lord! This had gone further than she had expected. How much time were they spending together? Never had she cursed the lack of a governess more. But managed to smile. “I see you have discussed serious topics already, and that is good. Continue to apply your good sense. You must agree that haste is unnecessary.”

  “I suppose so, but I love him so!”

  “I can see that,” she agreed, inwardly wincing at the pain Alice would suffer when Terrence rescinded his offer. But there was nothing she could do. And she still questioned his motives.

  Why did this problem have to arise now? she grumbled even as she turned the conversation to other topics. The last thing she needed was an unsuitable romance. A month of scrimping put her no closer to meeting the next mortgage payment. And she dared not mention the problem to Alice now that she knew the girl’s feelings. Alice would tell Terrence, who could use the information to pressure the bank into foreclosing.