She opened her parasol at a jaunty angle, pasted a brittle smile on her face, and stepped in time beside Miss Jane Downing. Hooves clopped merrily by as carriages ambled down Rotten Row. Miss Downing kept up a steady commentary about everyone they passed. The Grenville siblings invited Grace to their next ball. Lady Matilda Kingsley invited her to tea.
Zero gentlemen offered for Grace’s hand.
She kept a relentlessly pleasant smile plastered on her face and tried to keep her spirits up. She was going to marry one of these blue bloods if it killed her.
Her mother’s life depended on it.
Gravel crunched as a set of carriage wheels slowed to a stop right beside her. She tilted her parasol in order to cast an enquiring glance at the driver. Golden brown eyes twinkled down at her from the narrow, open carriage. Her heart tumbled. Lord Carlisle.
He held out his hand. “Take a turn about the park with me?”
She swallowed. Of course she wanted to, despite him being all wrong for her. Earls were disinclined to send their countesses to other continents, never mind that he wouldn’t be able to spare a penny. But being seen with him was still advantageous. It made her look desirable to the masses. More importantly, being with him made her feel better. He was the only other person she’d come to think of as a friend.
Still, her grandmother’s words of warning rang in her ears. There was barely enough space for a second person inside Lord Carlisle’s carriage, much less room for Miss Downing and both of their maids. “Thank you for your offer, but I mustn’t leave my friend.”
“What? Go.” Miss Downing made a shooing motion. “The maids and I will still be on the path when you make it back around.”
Grace cast her a doubtful look. “But—”
“What have you to fear? It’s a curricle,” Miss Downing pointed out dryly. “Everyone can see both of you, from every angle. Don’t be so missish. I should think three hundred chaperones would be plenty.”
Well. That was true enough. With a smile, Grace accepted Lord Carlisle’s hand and climbed up into the carriage.
After traveling a few yards in silence, he turned to her, his face serious. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”
She let out a long, shaky breath, no longer surprised at how well he could read her. “My mother. I’m worried about her. She was ill when I left home, and I haven’t been in contact with her since.”
He frowned. “You phrased that very carefully. By the level of your concern, I assume you have attempted to make contact several times. Are you afraid your mother is too sick to answer?”
He didn’t know the half of it. Fury licked through her veins and her fingers shook. “Today I found out my grandparents have been burning our letters. They disowned my mother years ago when she first left for America. All our correspondence has gone straight into the fire. She must be as sick with worry as I am.”
“Use my address,” Lord Carlisle ordered without hesitation. “Bring your letters to me. I will frank them. Instruct your mother to direct her replies to my home. Your grandparents cannot touch either of you there.”
For a moment, her throat was too prickly to allow proper speech. She nodded, blinking fast, then touched her fingers to his arm. “Thank you.”
“Anything you need,” he said gruffly.
Her smile turned wistful. She returned her fingers to her lap and interlocked them tight. It would not do to develop an infatuation. And if it were already too late, it definitely would not do to touch his arm and cast sighing gazes at him when they couldn’t be less suited for each other.
“What brings you to Hyde Park today?” she asked.
“Scaring up money,” he admitted. “I hope to entice some young blade into buying this curricle. It’s one of the last of my possessions with any value.”
“What about the Black Prince?” she blurted. Her cheeks flushed at the impertinent question. It was one thing to be aware he hadn’t a penny to his name. It was another thing altogether to have obviously been listening to gossip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Someday, I may have to sell him.” Lord Carlisle’s gaze unfocused toward the horizon. “’Tis the last thing I wish to do. He’s been part of my family for generations.”
She stared at his shuttered profile. He plainly hated to sell the painting. He’d even referred to the portrait as him, rather than it. She bit her lip. What a tough situation. If she had the spare coin, she’d buy it herself to make certain he could get it back.
“How about you?” he asked, his eyes sharp. “Just out for a stroll with friends?”
She took a deep breath. If he could be painfully honest, so could she. “Not exactly. I’m trying to tempt a rich bachelor into offering for my hand. Perhaps I can market myself to whoever is interested in your carriage. Buy a coach, get a bride. What do you think?”
“I think you’ll get more offers than this curricle will. Any man would be foolish not to want you.”
Her heart fluttered. “Well, they’ll be foolish if they take me. I’m only getting married because I’m after my own dowry money.” She sighed. “Although my grandparents inform me that any future husband is unlikely to hand it over.”
Lord Carlisle tilted his head. “I don’t know. Technically, the dowry goes to the husband, not the bride. But if you marry someone with deep enough pockets, he wouldn’t miss it. Your pin money alone might be more than adequate. What do you need it for?”
“To fetch my mother,” she answered immediately. “Well, first to nurse her back to health, and then to bring her to England.”
His eyes crinkled sardonically. “To live with the lucky gentleman whom you married for his money?”
Her spine slumped against the carriage. “Despicable plan, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Seems to be my plan, too. Marrying money, I mean. Not sailing off to America. Even with an heiress, I’m unlikely to have so much as a weekend holiday from my estate for many, many years. There’s too much work to be done to ensure the solvency and future of the estate. Before it crumbles.”
She narrowed her eyes. His words were flippant, but his voice… He hated this, all of it. Of course he did. Inheriting a destitute earldom. Selling the Black Prince. Marrying an unknown heiress.
Her stomach twisted at the image of Lord Carlisle’s arms about some horrid princess. Blast. She was beyond infatuated. She hated to think of him building a life with someone else. But what was the alternative? Offer to split her small dowry with him if he’d just settle for her instead?
“How much money do you need? For your earldom, I mean.” This time, she didn’t blush at the impertinent question. She needed to know the answer.
“Ten thousand would be a start,” he said wearily. “With that, I could settle debts and ensure all my tenants would survive the winter. Another ten or twenty thousand to make needed repairs and provide for future emergencies. I’d still live in an empty manor with few servants and two ancient horses, but at least I wouldn’t feel like I had a noose tightened about my neck.”
So much money, just to get started. She swallowed hard. Offering him half of her meager thousand would be ensuring his tenants wouldn’t make it through the winter.
Oh, if only she were wealthy! She could save her mother and Lord Carlisle. Who cared if they lived in an empty manor with few servants and two ancient horses? She neither wanted nor needed riches. She was used to managing a small household with no staff and limited resources. He was possibly the only gentleman of the ton for whom she’d actually make a decent bride.
Except for the small matter of her needing to sail to America to save her mother and him needing thirty thousand pounds to rescue his earldom.
She snuck another glance at him from beneath her lashes. He deserved a better life. If that meant that he was destined to marry an heiress, then she should do whatever she could to ensure he met his goal. She might have no connections or sphere of influence, but if she found herself among wealthy young ladies looking to land a title
, she could truthfully put him forth as one of the most caring, worthy people of her acquaintance. Perhaps in some small way, she could help him secure a bride.
Even if it ripped her heart in two.
`
Chapter 9
Oliver slipped into his father’s office. No. Oliver’s office. Lord knew he worked hard enough for it. More than his father ever did. He let his backside thud into the thick leather chair, then crossed his arms atop the desk and lay down his pounding head for just…one…second.
The last time he’d been this exhausted, he’d spent a week marching on a few hours’ sleep per night. Surviving as earl was shaping up to be an even more grueling battle. On even less sleep.
He’d spent the past week in the country with his tenants. Out in their fields. Inside their barns. Up on their roofs. He was lucky that gloves were en vogue, or he’d never be able to hide the scabs and calluses.
And of course he had to hide them. He needed the good regard of the crème de la crème of the Upper Ten Thousand. Who else would have both the means and the vicious delight necessary to snap up all of his cherished possessions at ridiculous sums? He’d sold his grays for more than he’d paid for them, just so a loose-tongued dandy could have bragging rights at the next horse race.
Oliver sighed wearily. Most of the rooms in his childhood home were now empty. He’d managed to sell everything of value, except for the daily minimum required for survival…and the family paintings still hanging in the Hall of Portraits. The cursed Black Prince, whom Oliver both loved and hated just as much as he’d loved and hated his father. The Prince was the son his father had wished he’d had, the only face he’d gazed upon.
Fittingly, the Black Prince was still the only thing of value in the entire estate. Oliver had sold everything else.
The servants were scandalized by the stately manor now boasting only a handful of semi-furnished rooms, but they didn’t dare voice their concerns. Not when their wages were up-to-scratch for once.
He lifted his head from his crossed arms and tugged an empty journal free from the shelves behind him. Today was the day he began anew. A fresh start.
First thing this morning, he’d ridden all over London, settling past due accounts. He wouldn’t have new clothes or fancy cheroots for years—if ever—but at least he’d climbed out of the hole and onto solid ground.
Afterward, he’d skipped lunch to go straight to the bank. Mr. Brown opened a new account in Oliver’s name, depositing one third of the small remaining funds therein, and investing the other two thirds in some sort of complicated interest scheme that Oliver wouldn’t be able to touch for six months, but was guaranteed not to lose value at least.
Last, he’d stopped by Miss Fairfax’s house. He’d waited until the money was out of reach because he didn’t want to be tempted into using all of it to save one person, when he still had dozens of servants and a hundred tenants counting on him for their continued well-being.
He didn’t mention Ravenwood. Largely because he couldn’t find the confounded duke. He hadn’t retuned any of Oliver’s calls at his estate. And Oliver could hardly add, “Important—Miss Fairfax is pregnant!” at the bottom of his calling cards.
Although there was no hope of Sarah giving up the baby, Ravenwood ought to be able to do something to ease the way. If Oliver could unearth him. If the duke was never at home, Oliver’s only hope was society events. He would attend every last one until the invitations dried up, and if he hadn’t found the stodgy bounder by then, he’d pitch a tent on Ravenwood’s doorstep and wait him out.
Wouldn’t be the first time Oliver slept on the ground. He’d learned all about sleeping in the great out-of-doors while serving in the army. An achievement unlikely to impress the fops or the ladies, but the five hundred quid in his brand new account wouldn’t last forever, and a wise man ought to have a fallback plan in case his house fell down around him.
Not that My servants and I can always share a lean-to next to the Thames was much of a fallback plan.
He rubbed his face. No wallowing allowed. There was work to do. He entered the opening details of his new banking account on the first page of the journal, then pushed it to the corner of his desk to dry.
Day One, complete.
Almost.
Fatigued as he was, there was still the Grenville rout yet to attend. All Oliver wished to do was fall into bed for about thirty hours, but too many people were counting on him. Whether they knew it or not. He still had to find Ravenwood and beg him to lend aid to Miss Fairfax. And of course Miss Halton was expecting Oliver to make good on his promise to frank her letters home to her mother.
Miss Halton. A sudden smile dispelled much of Oliver’s exhaustion. Even without a pretext, he’d still be looking forward to seeing her. He loved her quick wit, her fierce loyalty to her mother, the way she made him work for her smiles and laughter.
The thing he’d miss most about society events wouldn’t be the extravagant post-theatre meals or the raucous hunting weekends or the sunset promenades on St. James Square. No, what he’d miss most would be those precious stolen moments with Miss Halton.
It wasn’t that time stood still when he had her in his arms. It was that nothing else mattered. When her clear green eyes laughed up at him from beneath those arched black brows, the rest of the world simply fell away, and all that he knew was her. The sweet jasmine of her hair. The plumpness of her lower lip. The warm curve of her hip beneath his palm, and the endless desire to pull her closer, to press her to him so that her breasts crushed against his waistcoat as his hungry mouth finally claimed hers. There was nothing he wanted more than to taste her, to make her his own…
Madness! He shoved to his feet, furious over his lapse into fancy. She would never be his. He needed an heiress, not Miss Halton. There was no use dreaming about something that could not happen.
Money was running out. A month from now, he’d be lucky to have enough food to keep from starving to death one of these harsh winter nights. Was that the sort of future he wished for Miss Halton? He would rather die himself than cause anyone else to suffer for his father’s folly.
The best thing to do, the smart thing to do, was to keep her at arm’s length. Frank her letters. Be her friend. Stand aside in the shadows as some other man, some dashing, richer, better man swept her off her feet and into a chapel.
His stomach twisted. It took all his will to keep his trembling fists flush at his sides. If he punched a hole in the wall, he could ill afford to repair it. His jaw tightened. Even that small avenue of release was now closed to him.
With a sigh, he quit the office and made his way to his bedchamber to ring for a bath. He glared at the bell pull. Soon enough, he’d be hauling buckets of hot water up the stairs himself. Perhaps this very week. Now that he had his head around the Carlisle state of affairs (miserable) there was nothing left but to spend the next several days writing letters of recommendation for his entire staff. They deserved better, and the least he could do was make sure they received it.
In the meantime, however, his aching muscles deeply enjoyed relaxing in hot water he hadn’t had to slog up the stairs himself.
He let his valet make as much fuss over the matching of his waistcoat and cravat as the man wished—after all, even if Oliver could somehow afford to keep a valet in his employ, the man’s enthusiasm for his task would diminish once he realized his master meant to let his wardrobe fall to rot.
On his way to the front door, Oliver detoured by the office to return the now-dry journal back to its proper place on the shelves. He caught sight of the last two fingers of his father’s port in the otherwise empty cupboard where the old earl had once kept the rest of his liquors.
Oliver poured what was left into one of the few remaining wineglasses, and swirled the burgundy liquid beneath his nose. He couldn’t afford to buy more, and he wouldn’t do so even if he could. This was the last of his father’s wine. The last trace of his father anywhere. The spartan office, the empty house,
the entire desolate manor estate… It now belonged to Oliver, and Oliver alone.
He could drink to that.
Syrupy and tart, the thick wine danced across his tongue and slid down his throat. He smiled over the rim of the glass. Never had year-old, over-decanted port tasted so sweet. One more swallow and it, too, was nothing more than a memory.
By the time Oliver’s aging horse lumbered up to the Grenville estate, the crush was in full swing. The butler called Oliver’s name out toward the ballroom, but Oliver doubted anyone registered a word. He could barely hear the butler himself, even from two paces away.
This rout was madness. The Grenvilles must be over the moon.
Oliver checked for Ravenwood in all the usual male haunts, to no avail. Nor was the duke at the buffet, or sipping wine, or twirling a young lady about the dance floor. Oliver pressed his lips together. Whatever that sobersides was up to, it had better be good.
“—just can’t understand it,” came a familiar voice from somewhere just behind him. “That braying Yankee accent!”
God’s teeth. Phineas Mapleton. The helpful bigot who’d so fortuitously pointed Oliver toward “Miss Macaroni” a fortnight ago. His veins popped as he clenched and unclenched his fists and tried to slow his racing heart. The best thing to do with a windbag like that was to ignore him, but the blackguard could only be talking about Miss Halton. Oliver’s Miss Halton. There wasn’t a single thing wrong with the lady, and he’d be damned if he’d let Mapleton’s spiteful words harm Miss Halton’s chances of attracting an eligible suitor. Even if it couldn’t be Oliver.
“—I mean, why bother signing her dance card? It’s so public. And an utter waste of time, since the only thing any of us want to do with the chit is tup her. You can’t hear her accent when you’ve got your Thomas in her mouth. Mine wants to—”
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