Heiress in Love (Ministry of Marriage Novels)

by Christina Brooke

  “Aha!” said Rosamund, blue eyes knowing.

  “Aha?” repeated Jane. “What do you mean, ‘aha’? Whatever conclusion you are drawing that makes you look so smug, I beg you will put it out of your mind, Rosamund.”

  “She can’t help it,” said Cecily. “She’s an incurable romantic.”

  “Marriage will cure her of it soon enough,” muttered Jane.

  The smile fell from Rosamund’s face like light from a snuffed candle.

  Suddenly, Jane realized what she’d said. Her heart gave a sickened lurch; her insides cringed. She stared at Rosamund, aghast.

  How could she have been so unfeeling, so tactless? Rosamund’s lot was harder than anyone’s, for she loved a gentleman who was not her intended husband. He was a fine, honorable gentleman, a dashing cavalry officer, but not nearly grand enough for a Westruther heiress. The husband Montford had arranged for Rosamund was a very different sort: a big scowling brute of a man whom she could not possibly hope to love.

  “Oh, Rosamund,” Jane whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it!”

  Rosamund set down her cup with a small click. She offered Jane a polite, social smile that set her at a distance. “Never mind that. What are we to do about you?”

  Turning away to hide the pity that must show in her eyes, Jane crossed to the sideboard. Automatically, she lifted a silver lid and ladled a small portion of porridge into a bowl. She plopped a curl of butter into the center and watched it melt, golden tendrils bleeding outward. Then the milk, just a dribble laced around the yellow center.

  Perfect. Or it would be, if her appetite hadn’t deserted her. Rosamund was the last person in the world she’d wish to wound. She moved back to the table and sat down.

  Cecily propped her chin on her hand and stared hard at Jane. “I know. You must captivate him.”

  Jane wrinkled her nose. “Flirt, do you mean? But I don’t know how.”

  “A few smiles and a little encouragement wouldn’t go astray,” said Rosamund. “You can be rather forbidding, you know, darling.”

  Jane scowled. “Constantine Black is as bold as brass. The last thing he needs is encouragement.”

  “You’ve tried reason,” Cecily pointed out. “Now, it’s time for a little persuasion, don’t you think?” She sipped her chocolate. “Either that, or simply seduce him.”

  Jane choked on her porridge. “What?”

  Cecily shrugged. “You know. Make him compromise you so you have to marry. It happens all the time.”

  “Me? Seduce him? You cannot be serious.”

  “Of course she is not serious.” Rosamund frowned. “Are you, Cecily?”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” said Jane. “I—I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  There was a hint of curiosity in the tilt of Rosamund’s head. She’d certainly stare if she knew how many years it had been since Jane shared a man’s bed. Well, except that one last time, of course. She repressed a shudder.

  “I wouldn’t think he’s too particular, being a rake,” mused Cecily.

  Before Jane could answer that complimentary remark, a heavy footstep outside preceded the man she’d been waiting for. He filled the doorway, then stepped over the threshold and filled the room.

  Constantine Black was a large man, true, and well proportioned with it, as she’d been privileged to note the previous evening. But it was his personality that seemed to expand and ring through the empty space, bounce off the walls.

  Jane’s stupid heart bounded into her throat.

  “Ladies.” He bowed with an insouciant grace that somehow made mockery of the formal gesture.

  Jane performed the introductions. Cecily’s eyes widened. “You’re the new Roxdale?”

  He tilted his head. “That surprises you?”

  There was a disquieting glint in the green eyes, but Cecily was undaunted. “I should rather think so! Aren’t you some sort of cousin of Frederick’s?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You are nothing alike.”

  A film of ice seemed to settle over his features. “Ah. Yes, I’m said to take after my mother, in my coloring, at least. Welsh blood, you know. That might explain it.”

  “She must be very beautiful,” said Cecily. She turned her head and directed an accusing gaze at Jane. “Moderately handsome? The Lout is a veritable Adonis, Jane!”

  * * *

  Lout?

  Three pairs of feminine eyes inspected Constantine.

  He resisted the urge to tug at his cravat. Women had often admired his looks, it was true, but he’d never experienced this kind of openly critical analysis from a young lady, let alone three of them, particularly at the breakfast table. Dammit, he could feel embarrassment warm his cheeks.

  He smiled, forcing out between his teeth, “Lady Cecily, you’re too kind.”

  Lady Roxdale shrugged, clearly enjoying his discomfiture. “I daresay such things are a matter of personal taste.”

  “Handsome is as handsome does,” said the beautiful blonde quietly. She glanced at Lady Roxdale, then fixed an oddly penetrating blue gaze back on him.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Lady Cecily. “A man can be forgiven much if he’s that ornamental.”

  Lady Cecily Westruther was a brat, but a brat with that typical Westruther belief that she could say and do whatever she wished and get away with it. The Ice Maiden, for all she was a stickler for propriety where he was concerned, made no effort to silence the girl. Nor did the quieter beauty.

  He let none of this simmering resentment show on his face. “I’m happy to meet with your approval, Lady Cecily.”

  Setting her elbows on the table, Lady Cecily placed her chin in her hands and stared at him. He felt like a prime side of beef being sized up by a butcher. She was clearly wondering which part of him to carve up next.

  “Tell me,” the girl said. “Is it terribly thrilling to be a rake?”

  The blonde surprised him by chuckling as she rose from the table. “Enough, Cecily. You will make Lord Roxdale blush and he has not yet eaten his breakfast. Come, we must go up and see to the packing.”

  She bent to kiss Lady Roxdale’s cheek. “We shall be ready to leave in an hour.”

  Constantine felt the tension in his shoulders ease a little. Their departure couldn’t come too soon for him. He bowed again as the ladies left the room.

  “My lord, we must speak further about the situation we now find ourselves in,” said Lady Roxdale. “I must implore you to consider the advantages of our alliance.”

  Why did she want this marriage so badly? Was it only out of her sense of duty toward the estate? To Luke? He could well imagine her officious concern about Constantine’s influence on the morals of a small boy. He couldn’t believe she had any interest in the child beyond a self-righteous intention to meddle.

  “I am considering the advantages, believe me,” he said. “But until I’ve assessed my financial position, I would prefer to make no promises in that regard.”

  His conversation with Montford the previous evening had made him seethe with resentment, but he’d been rash in dismissing the notion of marrying Lady Roxdale. A long, punishing ride through the rain this morning had calmed his temper until he’d seen the truth. He could not afford to spurn the solution Lady Roxdale offered out of hand. Not if he wanted to keep the Lazenby estate intact.

  He wondered if he ought to warn her how opposed the duke was to the match, but thought better of it. She would find out for herself soon enough. He wondered how much the duke’s opinion would sway her. Last night, she’d seemed determined to stand against him but he suspected that wouldn’t be easy.

  Hoping he’d put an end to the matter for the moment, Constantine moved to the sideboard, where a few silver chafing dishes ranged. He took a plate and lifted the cover of one dish. Porridge. Another. Coddled eggs. Another. A pudding so pale it seemed to have developed a consumptive habit.

  His stomach growled, voicing its disappointment. Where was the bacon? The beefste
ak and kippers, sausages and broiled ham? He’d anticipated a good, hearty, carnivorous English breakfast, the kind his mother served at Broadmere.

  He’d woken with a bastard of a headache from his libations the previous evening and decided that the only way to drive away the devils was to take some punishing exercise in the fresh air. He’d come in, cold, wet and famished, only to be confronted by …

  “Nursery food,” he said blankly. “It’s nursery food.”

  “Healthful and sustaining.”

  Slowly, he turned, to see Lady Roxdale regarding him as if he were the odd one. He feigned a start. “Good God, are you still here?”

  She blinked, then ignored the question. “Try the porridge. It’s particularly good today.”

  “I’d rather swallow my own tongue.”

  She took up a spoonful of the pap and slipped it into her mouth. He wrenched his gaze from the way her lips worked together as she chewed. Lord, hunger was deranging his senses! Surely a woman eating porridge must be the least erotic thing in the universe.

  “I suppose you ordered all this just to spite me.” He sounded petulant, but dammit all, he wasn’t responsible for his actions when he was starving and the only sustenance within reach resembled the drivel they fed invalids and infants.

  She raised her brows, seeming genuinely surprised. “Why should I? Frederick and I sat down to this breakfast every day. Ask Cook if you don’t believe me.”

  She pressed a napkin to her lips and stood up, having eaten, he noticed, very little of her own meal. In that precise way of hers, she added, “Since you did not trouble to order what you liked, Cook served what she always serves.”

  He was supposed to order what he liked, was he? He’d simply assumed breakfast was normal here, the same as at every other gentleman’s home in England.

  His mistake. Nothing was normal at Lazenby Hall.

  Suddenly, Constantine felt a deep sympathy for his predecessor. Poor Frederick. No wonder he’d stuck his spoon in the wall if he’d been obliged to choke down this mess every morning.

  Lady Roxdale lifted her chin. “If you tell me what you require, I shall order it directly.”

  If he allowed her to maintain dominion over household duties, even temporarily, he’d never be rid of her. “Oh, no you don’t.”

  He caught her elbow as she moved past him. Her bare arm was warm and soft, unlike her personality. The pliable feel of her flesh sent messages racing to the part of his anatomy he needed to keep under control around her. On pain of death, if Montford was to be believed.

  She gasped and tugged against him. Her cheeks pinked. “You forget yourself, sir!”

  No, I’m just remembering.

  He stared down into her eyes, now stormy with alarm and confusion and something else that might be anticipation. The impulse to make those eyes flutter closed in sensual delight nearly overcame his good sense.

  Surely he wasn’t juvenile enough to want her simply because she’d been forbidden to him? Yet he burned to see if he could unsettle her as much as she unsettled him.

  Well, why not? Last night, he’d looked past her icy surface, seen glimmers of passion beneath. Why not stoke those embers to a blaze?

  “I’m moving to the master suite,” he said, and noted the flare in her gaze, the ripple in her throat as she gave a hard swallow. “It must come to this sooner or later, you know.”

  He relaxed his grip, turning restraint into a gentle caress of trailing fingertips down her arm. That smooth, pliant skin nearly undid him. He wanted to touch more of it, kiss and taste it, make every inch of it flush with rapture.

  Her eyelids sank, just a fraction, as if they might drift shut in silent enjoyment. Then, with a slight shake of the head, she recovered and seized the chance to slip free.

  She stepped back, dragging in a breath that held a distinct—and satisfying—tremor. “It’s your house. You must do whatever you wish.”

  He gave her a slow, carnal smile. “Whatever I wish?”

  She glanced rather desperately at the sideboard, as if hoping the coddled eggs would leap up and ride to her rescue. “I apologize for breakfast. I ought to have anticipated…” The words seemed to stick in her throat.

  So she’d decided to be conciliating, had she? What brought this on? He waited, not precisely enjoying her discomfiture, but curious as to what she’d say. How far would she humble herself to please him?

  She tried again. This time, with a determined smile. “I shall speak with Cook and order a breakfast fit for a king for tomorrow. You’ll see.”

  Her smile nearly vanquished him. Forced as it must have been, it lit her face, burnished her eyes to silver. Most especially, it drew his attention to the full lips that stretched and curved over her white teeth. Her lips were a rich, dull red that owed nothing to rouge. They looked full-bodied and delicious, like a fine burgundy.

  Since when have you sighed like a mooncalf over a lady’s smile?

  Women, he reminded himself, smiled at him for one of two reasons—they wanted something, or he had just given it to them. Constantine Black knew the game, and the odds were just the way he liked them.

  That softened expression was not at all guileless, was it? Even she, even his dead cousin’s wife, smiled because she wanted something. His ring on her finger.

  “Never mind,” he muttered. “I’ll speak to Cook myself.”

  His stomach cramping with hunger, he bowed and left her, striding off to the kitchens, which were placed as far as possible from the dining room and the breakfast parlor, too. An inconvenience he meant to remedy. Or he would, if he had a penny to bless himself with. Irritation whipped into anger at the thought.

  In the hall, he encountered Montford and Beckenham, who looked like they’d just returned from their own ride.

  As Montford handed his hat to the butler, his brows rose. “Ah, Roxdale. Well met.”

  Starvation lent savagery to Constantine’s satisfaction. “If you are looking for a decent breakfast, you’re doomed to disappointment, I’m afraid.”

  Beckenham shrugged out of his greatcoat, allowing it to fall into the waiting hands of the butler. “Oh, don’t concern yourself, Roxdale. We breakfasted in the village.”

  “The village,” Constantine repeated.

  The duke smiled, slapping his gloves against his bare palm. “Yes. The King’s Head lays on a bang-up breakfast, does it not, Beckenham? We never miss it when we come to stay.”

  “They do have a way with bacon there, don’t they?” Beckenham agreed. “Something in the curing, I think. Quite splendid.”

  At the mention of bacon, saliva surged into Constantine’s mouth. His stomach gave a growl so audible that the duke raised his quizzing glass and lowered his gaze to Constantine’s midriff.

  Without a word, Constantine swung on his heel and headed into the bowels of the house. Bloody know-it-all Westruthers! Obviously, they were wise to the ways of this household as Constantine was not.

  If he married the Ice Maiden, he’d never be rid of the rest of her devilish family. They’d be crawling all over his house at will.

  Constantine jogged down the narrow, winding staircase that led to the kitchens and catapulted back to his childhood.

  Ah, this kitchen, with its chessboard floor and its big wooden table and the cooling bench by the window, where he’d swiped hot buns and ginger biscuits as a lad. The scent of baked bread and herbs and beeswax. And the warm, floury hugs of Marthe.

  Would she still be here? His spirits rose at the thought, light and warm as one of Marthe’s loaves.

  Not a soul in the kitchen. Constantine heard the clink of cutlery on china and the murmur of voices from the servants’ hall down the corridor. He’d intended to raid the larder, but that could wait. He had to see if Marthe was here.

  When he appeared at the doorway of the dining hall, the chatter and movement ceased like a snapped thread. The servants rose as one, with scraping chairs and a clatter of forks that had paused, suspended in the air between plate a
nd mouth, when he walked in.

  He looked around. There were one or two familiar faces he couldn’t quite place. But at the foot of the table, one face stood out like a beacon, round, rosy-cheeked, and wreathed in a smile.

  He grinned. “Hallo, Marthe.”

  “Master Con!” His name, like a joyful prayer, galvanized him. He strode forward and plucked the middle-aged woman off her feet, swung her around.

  For which he received a soft cuff over the ear. “Tiens, milor’! What’ll you be at now, to come down here where you’re not wanted?”

  “Marthe, it does my heart good to see you.” He glanced at the sideboard, which groaned with proper breakfast fare. He grinned. “It goes even better with my stomach. Mind if I help myself?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he snatched up a plate and loaded it with large helpings of everything. Licking his thumb clean of bacon grease, he glanced around, to realize that his staff still stood to attention.

  “Oh, do sit down.” He hefted his plate. “I’ll, um, take this to the kitchen.”

  Marthe seemed to regain her wits. “Get on with your breakfast, all of you. I’ll see to his lordship.”

  She bustled out after him, alternately apologizing for the lack of decent victuals above stairs and chastising him for failing to visit her sooner.

  “Ah, but la pauvre petite!” she continued. “The mistress, she has not two taste buds to rub together, that one.” With a dramatic sigh, the cook turned down her wide mobile mouth and shook her head. “It is a travesty, but what can I do? I must follow orders and serve up this bland English mess.” She threw up her hands. “Pudding! It is enough to make one weep.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still here.” Constantine’s own taste buds exploded with pleasure as he savored a mouthful of fried mushrooms in a creamy sauce laced with herbs and brandy.

  A Gallic shrug. “I am tied here by more than loyalty.”

  He winked. “Fell in love with the butler, did you? The old devil! Didn’t know Feather had it in him.”

  Marthe drew herself up. “That cadaver! Is it likely that I would love such a one?”