To Marry an Heiress

by Lorraine Heath

  He dropped his gaze to her tapping foot. Her irritation was incredibly easy to read. His society provided rules for every occasion, rules a person was expected to follow. He wondered how long it would take her to adapt to the code.

  “Once tarnished, a woman’s reputation can never again shine,” he told her.

  “You care about things like reputation?”

  “Indeed I do. Shall we take that stroll?”

  “Without a chaperone?”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  She released a small laugh that took him off guard. A soft lilt that floated on the evening breeze, an inviting warmth that caused him to think that perhaps marriage to her would not be as awful as he’d imagined.

  “Seems you only worry about the rules if you think you’ll get caught breaking them,” she said.

  “Quite so.” He extended his crooked elbow toward her. “Shall we?”

  She reached out as though she would place her hand on his arm, and then, as though thinking better of it, she simply said, “Just lead the way.”

  He dropped his arm to his side and began walking along the cobblestone path. She fell into step beside him, her skirts swishing around her. It had been an incredibly long time since he’d strolled with a lady.

  Beneath the perfume of roses wafting around them, he caught the whiff of another scent, subtle but alluring. He didn’t recognize the sweet fragrance, but he knew it belonged to the woman beside him. He wondered what other surprises he might discover about her.

  “You were going to explain what I could expect if we got married,” she said.

  If? Did these Americans never commit to anything?

  “Right,” he answered succinctly. “Our marriage would be typical of the English aristocracy. We would spend the summer in the London house and the rest of the time at my country estate.”

  “Your country estate?”

  Wealth gave her an advantage over him he didn’t much fancy but knew he would have to accept. He fought to keep the irritation from seeping into his voice. It would not do at this early stage of the courtship to give her cause to doubt his sincerity. “Our country estate.”

  “How would you treat me?”

  “With the utmost respect, naturally.” He glanced over at her, lost in the shadows. He’d suggested the walk because he found it easier to speak when he could not look directly into the eyes of another—when pity was absorbed by the darkness. “And with gratitude. My estate, the life I have always known, is crumbling around me.”

  “You could get a job,” she suggested.

  Or slit his throat, his preferred choice if only allowed the two. “People of my station do not get jobs.”

  “I have to confess I don’t understand your aversion to working.”

  “A gentleman does not work. It is the one remaining aspect of our lives that separates us from the masses.” Those of the middle class who were becoming landowners, those who were acquiring wealth and imitating the aristocracy. Those who could never buy their way into the position in which Devon had been born.

  Men such as her father. Yet it seemed what he couldn’t acquire for himself, he could boldly purchase for his daughter.

  “But if it’s a matter of going hungry—”

  “I am not yet at the point of hunger. Marriage is an acceptable solution. Besides, your father informs me you wish to have a child. That I can give you.”

  “That?”

  She sounded truly horrified. An Englishwoman would be tripping over herself to gain his favor, and this woman was waging war against the subtle nuances of their conversation.

  “We’re talking about a child—” she began.

  “I realize that,” he interrupted. “I chose my words poorly. I simply meant that I have the ability to give you a son or daughter.”

  “And you’ll be willing to give me a child?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Will you love this baby or resent him?”

  “Why would I resent it?”

  They had circled back to the spot where they’d begun their journey. She stopped walking and stared at him, giving him the distinct impression she could see through the night into his soul.

  “You strike me as being a proud man,” she said softly. “I suppose I worry you’ll come to resent what marriage to me gained you.”

  “As I stated earlier, you may rest assured that particular circumstance will not happen. I grew up knowing my place in society and understanding well its cost.”

  Distant lights made it easier to see her silhouette. She nodded slightly, and he wondered if she’d been contemplating his words. They seemed wholly inadequate to express what he felt and what he was willing to sacrifice in order to ensure the well-being of Huntingdon. It was not so much the present that concerned him, but the future…and the past.

  He felt as though he was disappointing those who had come before and failing those who would come after.

  “Will it embarrass you to have such an unsophisticated wife?” she asked.

  “Sophistication can be learned.”

  “And if I’ve no desire to be taught?”

  Her tone issued a definite, defiant challenge. What a contradiction she was: hiding out one moment, challenging him the next.

  Obviously she would not change for him. Could he change for her? Whatever embarrassment she might cause him would pale when compared to the mortification he was on the brink of enduring.

  “Then I shall adjust my thinking,” he assured her.

  “Tell me about your family’s estate,” she ordered gently.

  His chest tightened with the memories of walking across the fields with his father. “Huntingdon has seen better days. The manor is grand, the land beautiful. I have two thousand acres. The tenants pay a pound per acre yearly, but few tenants are left to work the fields. Most have moved to the cities in search of employment in the various industries, work which will put more money in their pockets. The old life must give way to the new, I suppose. Therefore much of the land lies fallow. I want to restore Huntingdon to its former grandeur and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that end.”

  “Except work.”

  He clenched his jaw. How did he explain to someone who came from a new nation what it was to have his roots buried in centuries of history?

  “Huntingdon defines who I am, who my family has been. Certain expectations abound, which I’m determined to follow.”

  “The easy way is not always the best way.”

  “Believe me, Miss Pierce, no aspect of this predicament is remotely easy for me.”

  She turned away, and anger roiled through him. He’d come close to baring his soul, and for what? He needed neither her respect nor her kind regard. He only required her father’s money to put to rights what his father had torn asunder.

  “I’ll agree to marry you but only on one condition,” she said quietly before turning to face him.

  Devon cursed the stars. Weren’t enough conditions attached to this marriage? “What would your solitary condition entail, Miss Pierce?”

  She tilted her chin up ever so slightly. “You must never lie to me. You must never tell me I am beautiful when I am not. You must never tell me you love me when you cannot.”

  “Never is a long time, Miss Pierce.”

  “So is until death do us part, my lord.”

  “Indeed it is. I accept your condition.”

  She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Then she lifted her chin up as though about to challenge him once again. “I assume my father isn’t going to part with his money until we’re married. How soon do you wish to wed?”

  No lies, she’d said. Well, then, he’d give her no lies. “The sooner the better.”

  “When would sooner be?”

  “I can obtain a special license. We could be married by the end of the week. There will of course be talk.”

  “It’ll be scandalous, won’t it?” She gave him a small smile. He knew it was a trick of the moonl
ight and that moonbeams were gentle, but for a moment she almost appeared a vision of loveliness. “I’ve never had my name associated with a scandal before. I think it might be quite fun.”

  Quite fun? Dear Lord, but he’d spent his life ensuring no scandals were associated with him. Now a hasty marriage to a foreigner would taint his efforts.

  “May I call on you the day after tomorrow to apprise you of my success in obtaining our license?” he asked.

  “The day after tomorrow will be fine.”

  She held out her small hand, and he wrapped his larger one around it, absorbing the slight tremors in hers. Theirs was a business arrangement. He needed financing. She desired a child and the respectability his title offered. A business arrangement was agreed upon with a handshake.

  And if her hand hadn’t been trembling, that’s all he would have given her, all he’d planned to give her. Instead he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a light kiss against her gloved fingertips. “Until the day after tomorrow, Miss Pierce.”

  He released her hand and began to walk away.

  “My lord?”

  He turned back, and she was once again watching the lawn. “Sometimes things look different in the morning. I’ll understand if you have a change of heart and don’t call on me.”

  “I’ll be there,” he vowed quietly.

  With his velvet promise lingering on the slight breeze, Georgina watched the shadows play over the lawn while clouds waltzed across the moon.

  Originally she had not intended to accept his offer. In truth she had not even planned to encourage his suit with conversation. And yet she’d been unable to ignore him, to allow him to walk away. Not when he represented what she had yet to obtain. He was a gentleman. A gentleman in need of financing.

  And she was a woman, a woman who longed to belong, who desperately wanted children. A little one to love who would return that affection untainted.

  How could she turn away from the opportunity to live with a man who’d spoken of his home with such affection, as though bits of silver and gold threaded his voice. She did not expect him to ever extend that emotion toward her, but it comforted her to know he was capable of expressing it.

  He’d said the situation wasn’t easy for him. But neither was it easy for her. To give herself to a man she barely knew…or to never give herself at all.

  What had she been thinking to accept? Here in the garden, surrounded by shadows, it had all seemed dreamlike, and she’d succumbed to the lure of at long last finding a place where she belonged. A home.

  And in time a child. Someone who would love her as her father did—simply because she existed.

  Dared she believe that he would keep his promise to come for her? The secret place within her that longed for all the things she’d been denied hoped that he would.

  She pressed her balled hand just above her breast. The ache in her chest increased as the tears slowly leaked onto her cheeks. She knew worse things existed than a marriage without love. But was anything lonelier?

  She could stand on a windswept prairie and not feel lonely. She could stand in a crowded ballroom and know a lonesome ache that defied description.

  Which would her marriage resemble?

  Her father’s money had purchased her grandest dream: to become a wife. She could only hope his taste in men far exceeded his taste in women’s clothing.

  Quickly she swiped the tears from her cheeks. Although she did not need love, she dearly wanted it.

  She was grateful Lord Huntingdon had approached her early in the evening. Now she could sneak away and dream of a love that would never be…one last time. After her marriage, she would never again dream or look back or regret what might have been. She would content herself with what was. She never wanted her father or husband to realize she was unhappy.

  Her husband.

  She couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the possibility.

  She strolled into the ballroom. Happy sounds floated toward her. Flirtations always carried such a musical lilt to them. Women blushed. Gentlemen’s eyes warmed with pleasure. She’d always watched from the edge, never having been invited into the circle.

  A shame she hadn’t added one waltz at each ball to her list of conditions. She had a feeling that once Lord Huntingdon had his fist around her father’s money, he would seldom be tempted to close his hand around hers.

  Wending her way through the crowd, she listened as the gentle strains of a waltz floated across the room.

  “I believe this is my dance, Miss Pierce.”

  She spun around, her heart thundering. The Earl of Huntingdon stood before her in his finely cut jacket that had seen better days, and his somber eyes that she was certain had seen more joyous evenings.

  He extended his hand toward her. As though in a dream, she placed hers on top of his, and he escorted her onto the dance floor. Her breath caught once she realized exactly what she’d allowed. She’d never in her life waltzed. Of course, she’d never been married either, but that hadn’t stopped her from accepting his proposal—such as it was.

  In rhythm with the music, he waltzed with her, his gaze holding hers captive. She would look into those blue eyes every evening for the remaining years of her life. She would watch his black hair turn completely silver and the shallow grooves etched on his face deepen. She would witness the slowing of his gait and his acquisition of wisdom. Would his shoulders slump with the burden of age? Or would he stand tall against all the challenges that life would toss their way?

  Slowing his step, reaching out, he grazed his gloved knuckle over her eyelashes. “You overlooked a tear, sweeting.”

  “It’s a woman’s right to cry when she accepts a proposal of marriage.”

  “Indeed. I find women weep over a great many things.”

  “I don’t,” she assured him.

  “No, I suspect you don’t.”

  The final refrain from the song drifted over her, around her, through her.

  “I shall call on you the day after tomorrow,” he said solemnly.

  She nodded quickly, her throat tightening and tears threatening to fill her eyes. She refused to cry again for all they would not have—especially in front of him. “I’ll be waiting.”

  She should have contented herself with the nod instead of speaking in a voice that greatly resembled a bullfrog sitting on the muddy bank of a creek back home.

  “As you mentioned, sometimes things appear different in the morning,” he said, repeating her earlier comment. “I’ll understand if you have a change of heart and decide not to see me when I arrive.”

  She angled her chin defiantly. “I’m not one to go back on my word.”

  He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “Until then…sleep well.”

  She would have sworn the room became quiet enough for a prayer meeting as his long, confident strides carried him away from her.

  As for sleeping well, she doubted that she would sleep at all.

  Chapter 5

  L ounging in a chair before the cold, empty hearth in his bedchamber, Devon studied the portrait of his wife that hung above the marble mantel. He supposed he would have to place it elsewhere. It would be bad form to leave it here where his new wife might happen upon it.

  He had not expected to be drawn to Georgina Pierce. Not attracted in the classical sense, but drawn as the ocean laps at the shore. It cannot stop its momentum forward, and even after it retreats, it quickly returns.

  Amazingly he’d possessed a strong desire to return to her for another dance. Perhaps it was the lure of that solitary tear clinging to her dark lash as an early morning dewdrop on the petal of a red rose might.

  During the journey home, he’d constantly stroked the spot on his glove that carried the dampness from her tear. He could not prevent himself from wondering at her reason for weeping. For joy because he had rescued her from the fate of a spinster? Or from disappointment because he hadn’t spoken of undying love?

  He presumed disappointm
ent was the culprit. She’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t anticipate flattery. Strange how once she’d forbidden it, he’d wanted to inundate her with it.

  Not the idiotic moon pales in comparison garbage that he still had difficulty believing he’d uttered earlier. Rather something more substantial, more honest. He doubted that he would ever view her as gorgeous, but something about her that he couldn’t quite identify intrigued him. Perhaps their marriage would not be as disheartening as he’d envisioned.

  Yet he seriously doubted it would resemble his marriage to Margaret in any manner. Theirs had been one of passion. He had loved her with every aspect of his existence. Even when she had turned away from him. When his touch had repulsed her because his hands were no longer those of a gentleman.

  This evening his gloves had hidden that disgraceful fact from Miss Pierce, but she would no doubt notice during their wedding night when he sought to fulfill his promise to give her a child. The calluses on his palms would abrade her skin.

  Margaret had come to loathe the roughness of his hands. No matter how lightly he’d touched her, she’d claimed he hurt her delicate flesh. No matter how often he’d bathed, she’d sworn he smelled as though he’d rolled in the fields.

  When he’d gone to her bed, she’d wept for all they’d once had and mourned all they no longer possessed. He’d lost her long before she died.

  He’d been lonely for such a long time now. Lonely and alone.

  He had failed Margaret, and in so doing, he had disappointed himself.

  Pierce’s money would help him regain his self-esteem. Would help wash away his memory of Margaret calling him a pitiful excuse for a man…only moments before she died in his arms.

  “I want to know everything!”

  Georgina squinted through the darkness as Lauren flung herself on the bed, causing it to rock. She shook Georgina’s shoulder. “Wake up and tell me everything.”

  “I am awake.” Georgina pulled herself into a sitting position and shoved the pillows behind her back.

  As soon as Huntingdon had left her, she’d gone in search of the carriage. She’d come home, readied herself for bed, crawled beneath the blankets, and stared at the ceiling, mulling over the strange evening.