To Marry an Heiress

by Lorraine Heath

  Huntingdon wouldn’t squander the money he acquired when he married Gina. Nor would he squander the happiness she could bring him.

  “I wanted an unbiased impression of the man. He’s loyal to his tenants and his land. He’ll be loyal to Gina.”

  “At least let her know that he has an interest in her.”

  He supposed there would be no harm in that approach. If he handled it properly, Gina would be none the wiser regarding the exact conditions of the marriage. Huntingdon would no doubt court in haste. He supposed it was to his advantage to prepare his daughter for the man’s suit.

  As soon as the marriage took place, he’d make arrangements to have it announced in The New York Times. Yes, sir, his little gal marrying an English aristocrat would curl the hair on a few of the matrons heads.

  Georgina stared at the ball gown draped over the edge of the bed. The yellow shade reminded her of a healing bruise. She’d stopped counting the bows when she reached twenty-five. As for the feathers that lined the back collar and would press against her head…what in God’s name had the seamstress been thinking when she’d agreed to make this abominable creation?

  Georgina knew what her father had been thinking. A man of excesses, the beauty of simplicity completed eluded him. How could she possibly wear this atrocious garment to tonight’s event?

  With a sinking heart she set a large box on the bed. Inside was the gown that had only just arrived from the dressmaker. Incredibly elegant, it consisted of nothing more than simple lines. She’d fallen in love with the deep blue satin the moment she saw it. The hero of her dreams always possessed eyes of that color. Eyes that hid a tortured soul. A soul calling to her to lend strength and wisdom—

  A knock on the door brought her abruptly back to the present and the hideous gown. “Come in.”

  Her father shuffled into the room, sweat beading his brow, his nose and cheeks ruddy. In spite of the cool climate, he always looked as though he were on fire.

  “What do you think of the gown, darlin’?” he asked, as though he’d discovered buried treasure that had been lost for centuries.

  She certainly wished it hadn’t been dug up, but she wouldn’t hurt his feelings for the world. “Oh, Papa, it’s”—she glanced at the dress; how to disguise the truth without lying was a game she’d played with him since she was a child—“it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I knew you’d love it! You’re just like your mother used to be. Too easy to please. Lord, I miss her more each day.”

  Her heart went out to him. Pneumonia had taken her mother last year. Pneumonia and a broken heart brought on by society’s cruelties.

  Her father’s face suddenly brightened. “I talked with a fella yesterday. Devon Sheridan.”

  She didn’t particularly like the manner in which her father had said that—as though he’d recently acquired some new property. “Devon Sheridan?”

  His smile grew. “He’s titled, gal, and he’s asked for permission to call on you. I’ve granted it.”

  She dropped onto the fainting couch situated at the foot of the bed. She tried to steady the thunderous beating of her heart. Lifting her gaze, she felt the dull ache in her chest grow as she contemplated the pleased expression on her father’s beloved face. “Why would he want to call on me?”

  “Because the man knows true beauty when he sees it. He confided to me he’s been watching you from afar for some time now.” He stepped closer, grabbed her hand, and squeezed hard. “I’m sure he’s contemplating marriage, and I’m sure he won’t be long in asking.”

  With trepidation slicing through her, she felt her skin prickle as though a thousand ants crawled over her flesh. She’d never met the man, and she seriously doubted anyone was watching her from afar. “But Papa, I only came here to visit, not to live.”

  “No reason you can’t stay here. Besides, you and Lauren were always like two peas in a pod. As you grow older, it’s a good thing to stay close to those who knew you when you were little. Helps you to remember your roots, feel secure in their hold.”

  “But my roots are in Texas.” She didn’t want to hurt him by pointing out that if he thought roots were so important, he shouldn’t have pulled her out of Texas to begin with.

  “And a harsher land there will never be.”

  “But I love Texas.”

  His face crumpled as though she’d plunged the recently sharpened blade of a knife through his heart. “Lord, Gina, I thought you’d be gladdened. You’re always talking about how much you want children, and you can’t have them if you ain’t got a husband.”

  She wanted children more than she’d ever desired anything in her life, but it took more than simply acquiring a husband. It took getting intimate with him, an act that required fondness, caring, trust…certainly too many things to name. “But Papa—”

  “Shh, now.” Awkwardly he knelt in front of her and skimmed his knuckles over her cheek, the love reflected in his eyes bringing tears to hers. “I know what it is to want a child, Gina. Your mother and me were married twenty some odd years before you blessed our lives. I want to leave this world knowing I’ve done my best by you and you have someone to share your life with. Someone who can appreciate all you have to offer.”

  Alarm skittered through her at his somber mention of leaving this world. “Papa, are you keeping something from me? Are you ill?”

  “Of course not, but I’m an old man growing older, and I’m getting tired. I want you to be happy. I want you to have that young ’un you’ve always wanted so desperately.”

  “But an English lord, Papa? I think I’ll get bored out of my ever-lovin’ mind married to a man who does nothing but play. I’d rather marry a costermonger. At least he works up a sweat.”

  “A man with a title will give you respectability, a place in society that I couldn’t give you in New York.”

  Her heart tightened as the truth dawned on her. “This trip was a husband-hunting expedition, wasn’t it?”

  Her father ducked his head as though embarrassed that his grand scheme had been discovered.

  “Don’t you see, Gina? He’s got to be an Englishman, an aristocrat. A man with a title. To show those New York bitches who shunned your mother that she was good enough.”

  “Oh, Papa. Mama was so much better than them—”

  He jerked up his head to reveal tears welling in his eyes. “You know that, I know that. By God, I want those Knickerbockers to know it. To know we were all good enough.”

  “Revenge is not a reason to get married,” she said softly, her heart aching for his agony.

  “It’s not revenge. It’s practicality. You’re long past a marrying age. We’re here in England. Why not marry an aristocrat? Be a countess. Have your children. Do this for your mother. She’d want to see you happy.”

  “I didn’t come here looking to get married.”

  “I know you didn’t, gal, but give this young fella a chance. If you don’t like him, I’ll find someone else for you.”

  He spoke as though he was deciding on a new piece of furniture or a bauble. Something insignificant, not a person who could forever alter her life. She’d always followed his advice, acknowledged his greater wisdom, and sought his counsel. How could she now turn aside his plans?

  “Why did you choose this particular man?”

  “Because he loved his first wife something fierce and spoiled her rotten.”

  “He was married?” The tapestry of his grand scheme was revealing its unbecoming threads as she unraveled it. Why would she want a man who had already been married and acquired certain expectations regarding a wife’s behavior? If she was to marry at all, she wanted a man who understood her need not to be tethered.

  Her father nodded sagely. “She died three years ago. He’s been mourning ever since. Only came to London a few days ago to visit with his solicitor. Doesn’t usually go to the parties around here, but then he heard about you.”

  She could well imagine what he might have heard about her.
She simply didn’t fit in this society.

  “Then I’ll be competing with his memories of his wife.”

  “Nah, not once he gets to know you well. He’ll love you as much as I do. Maybe more. Besides, he needs you, gal. You could make him grateful for his days.”

  She averted her gaze, because it hurt to see the hope reflected in her father’s eyes.

  “Why do you think he’d make a good husband?”

  “He was never unfaithful to his wife—a rare thing among these gents. Most treat their mistress better than they do their wife. But not this fella. He doesn’t drink to excess. He doesn’t gamble.”

  Unlike her father. A man of excesses indeed. When he drank, he drank until he lost all reason. When he gambled, he lost fortunes. Fortunately, he seldom engaged in either activity. Shortly after they’d arrived, he’d begun disappearing for a few days here and there. She’d assumed then that he’d gone in search of places to gamble. Instead it sounded as though he’d been hunting down a husband for her.

  “You like him,” she responded gravely, as though gloomily accepting her fate. But he wasn’t presenting her with a ball gown she could remove at the end of a long evening. He was offering her a husband, a mate for the remainder of her life. Years and years and years. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Wasn’t that how the old saying went?

  “I like what I’ve seen of him. I went to his estate, without him knowing, of course. Talked to his tenants, the villagers. I know the sort of man he is. I understand the sacrifices he’s willing to make for his land—sacrifices most of these men wouldn’t be caught dead making. He’ll do well by you. If not for me, then at least for the memory of your mother, give him a chance.”

  She didn’t want to remember all the days her mother had waited for the arrival of an invitation that would never come, waited for someone to call on her. No one ever did.

  Georgina gave him a tremulous smile. “I’ll give him a chance.”

  Her father’s grin shifted the wrinkles in his face and made him appear much younger. “You won’t regret it. Now get ready for this ball. I have a feeling he’ll introduce himself tonight.”

  She cast a speculative glance at the gown her father had purchased for her. If Devon Sheridan approached her while she wore it, she’d know he was a desperate man. A desperate man indeed.

  Chapter 3

  A s Georgina stood beside Lauren in a corner of the ballroom, she couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the extravagance—the glittering world of crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and mirrored walls. Dozens of large flower arrangements made the air nauseatingly sweet. Although the area reserved for dancing was open, the perimeter was crowded with small tables, chairs, plants, and statuettes.

  Georgina always felt as though the walls were closing in on her. At times she found it increasingly difficult to breathe. Even when she walked through the city, she was bothered by the hordes of people. Her only respite came in the wee hours of the morning, when she went riding.

  She couldn’t possibly contemplate marrying and remaining here. If only something grander than loneliness awaited her in Texas.

  “Stop twirling your fan,” Lauren whispered harshly.

  Georgina stilled, grateful for the distraction. “You told me to hold it in my left hand to signify I was interested in making someone’s acquaintance. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “No, you’re twirling it in your left hand, which is a signal you love someone.”

  And she certainly didn’t love anyone. Had never loved anyone beyond her family and Lauren. She’d longed for a gentleman to love her. To look upon her as so many of these young men did Lauren.

  Would Devon Sheridan gaze upon her with appreciation? She contemplated what she might have done to garner his attention. Nothing of significance came to mind. In truth she could not help but feel that her father had taken some action.

  And yet would a match based on mutual needs be such a terrible thing?

  She was twenty-six years old, and love continued to elude her. And although she had not come to London searching for a husband, she couldn’t help but speculate on what it might be like to be truly accepted into this circle. To have a husband and in time children.

  She desperately wanted to give her children roots deeply embedded in familial history. What better place for that than England?

  But her heart belonged to Texas. Her father wasn’t only asking her to consider marrying a man she didn’t know, but he was asking her to give up her dream of returning home to live.

  Georgina glanced around, wondering if Devon Sheridan had arrived. She hoped her father was wrong, that the man wouldn’t approach her here. She didn’t know all the rules and subtle nuances. Memorizing them wasn’t the same as applying them.

  “You’re twirling the fan again,” Lauren said in a whisper.

  “I can’t help it. I hate just standing here, waiting. Maybe I should go home.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m trying to decide who would find you the most interesting, so I can introduce him to you.”

  She hadn’t shared with Lauren her father’s amazing afternoon revelation. Lauren would only encourage her to accept the man’s suit. It didn’t matter that they had not one thing in common—not their heritage, not their language, not their values. It was an odd notion: that a country born of another could have rebelled to such a degree it hardly resembled its mother any longer. But Georgina assumed that result was the natural evolution of a child. To seek its own path, its own destiny. To be forever different.

  Besides, Sheridan might not show, and she didn’t want to appear the fool for halfway wishing he would.

  “Of course, we’d have more success at finding you a suitor if you’d worn something”—Lauren’s gaze roamed Georgina’s length—“other than that ghastly gown your father purchased.”

  “It pleased Papa for me to wear it.”

  “Don’t you ever take into consideration what would please you?”

  “It pleases me to please Papa.”

  Suddenly Lauren dug her fingers into Georgina’s arm and whispered in a low, conspiratorial voice, “My God, I don’t believe it. Huntingdon is here.”

  “Huntingdon?”

  “Papa’s cousin.” She surreptitiously wiggled one of her fingers in the direction of her gaze. “Over there. The wickedly handsome gentleman talking to Papa.”

  Georgina had always thought it was a wondrous expression of Lauren’s closeness to her stepfather that she called him Papa.

  Squinting, she gazed across the ballroom. The man talking to Christopher Montgomery was dark, not only in coloring but in demeanor. She couldn’t explain the reason he seemed mysterious. And it seemed as though, like her, he didn’t quite belong. Even from this distance, she could determine that his black double-breasted jacket was well tailored, yet it appeared that he’d outgrown it slightly.

  Did men outgrow their clothing? She supposed so, if they put on weight, but Huntingdon didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on him. And he looked to be well past his growing years.

  Maybe it was the breadth of his shoulders, completely unlike those of the men surrounding him. She imagined him working the land in Texas, a vision he would no doubt have taken exception to. When a few gentlemen had visited Lauren, Georgina had discovered lifting a teacup was work to an English peer.

  She suspected Huntingdon engaged passionately in sports of some kind. Far be it from the nobility to get their hands dirty in honest labor.

  How could she ever consider marrying a man like this—one she’d never be able to respect? Even if she liked him, how could she admire him, when their values were completely different? And without veneration, she knew it was doubtful love would ever exist between them.

  “How can they be cousins when they look nothing alike?” Georgina mused. An inane question, but at least it served to bring a halt to the arguments rushing through her mind with the force of stampeding cattle.

  “They say there is gypsy blood on his father’s
side—it’s quite scandalous. His mother was Papa’s aunt. That’s how they come to be cousins.”

  Gypsy blood. Yes, she could see that now. His skin possessed a swarthiness, unlike the deathly pale coloring of the other gentlemen in the room. Maybe his complexion was part of the reason he looked out of place—physically he simply didn’t look dandified or spoiled.

  “Why are you surprised to see him here?” she asked Lauren.

  “He seldom attends balls or social events. I’ve never even been to Huntingdon, because he’s never invited us, and it’s simply not done to go uninvited. He and his wife called on us shortly after we arrived, but recently he has become a bit of a recluse.”

  Georgina watched as Huntingdon wended his way through the crowded ballroom with poise and confidence, almost prowling. His movements reminded her of the panther—black, sleek, and restless—she’d observed at the London zoological gardens.

  She didn’t know why she sensed he had a strong urge to roll his shoulders as she’d seen so many cowboys do before they hoisted their saddles onto their horse’s back. A roll starting at the hip and working its way upward almost poetically.

  She enjoyed the natural grace of a man when he was working hard. It was appreciation, not lust, that she felt when she watched a cowboy exerting himself. The rhythm of muscles bunching, coiling, flexing, tightening. Muscles that looked firm even when they were relaxed.

  Sheridan, wherever he was, probably had limp limbs and weak hands.

  Lauren’s fingers threatened to cut off Georgina’s circulation.

  “Oh, my God, he’s coming toward us,” Lauren whispered frantically.

  And Georgina realized that somehow, some way, she’d managed to lock her gaze with Huntingdon’s—or at least it might have appeared that way to him. When in truth, she’d only been admiring his form, a shape that seemed out of place in this ballroom. During her observation, without thinking, she’d pressed the handle of the fan to her lips: “Kiss me.”