To Marry an Heiress

by Lorraine Heath

  An incredible, warm smile spread across his face, and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “I would have if I considered this pursuit work, but it’s pleasure. The aristocracy prefers to engage in pleasure at a more intimate level.”

  He’d spoken the words “pleasure” and “intimate” in a low purr that made her think of flickering candles, cool sheets, and warm bodies. She assumed it was her impending marriage and her conversation with Lauren that had these carnal thoughts running through her mind. She had on occasion daydreamed about lying in bed with a man, but the visions had never taken such firm root that she couldn’t shake them off.

  “If I may be blunt, I don’t understand your aversion to work,” she said.

  “A man of my standing doesn’t engage in laborious acts. It’s simply not done. I assume you have no appreciation for the amount of effort involved in appearing idle. It’s quite tiresome.”

  She laughed with disbelief. “Not as tiresome as hard, honest labor.”

  “I take it you don’t approve of idleness.”

  “I just figure a grown man ought to be able to dress himself.”

  “Ah, but I do, Gina.”

  He wrapped such carnality around the shortened version of her name that she almost lost her grip on her parasol. Clutching it, she strove to regain her composure, to not think about how nice it would be to have him whisper her name in that enticing manner beside her ear during the height of passion. She desperately wanted to swallow, but her mouth had grown too dry.

  “Well, then, Devon—” His name squeaking out of her mouth more closely echoed fear than sensuality. She was not gifted at playing mating games, acting coy, or being sophisticatedly brazen. “My opinion of you has improved ten-fold.”

  “Once we are wed, I’ll see to hiring a lady’s maid for you.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

  She’d gone years without a maid. Of course, she’d worn much simpler dresses at the time. She’d had a maid while she was in New York, and Lauren’s servants had been assisting her since she’d come to London. She supposed she should graciously accept his offer to hire a maid for her. She’d spoken quickly, because she hadn’t wanted him to think she was unable to manage on her own. She didn’t know why his impression of her abilities mattered, but it did.

  “I’m afraid I must insist. I’ll not have it bandied about that my wife must do without.”

  “Your peers’ perception of you is important to you,” she said speculatively.

  “Quite so. As such, I would appreciate it if you would not disclose that financial need brought us together rather than a mutual attraction. I’ve been quite adept at hiding my impoverished state.”

  Arrogant pride was carved into his features. She was only just beginning to realize that it might not have been laziness that had brought him to her father but fear of appearing to be less of a man in front of those who mattered to him. “It must have cost you dearly to approach my father.”

  He clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on the oars. “A price I was willing to pay.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to seek employment—”

  “Of course, it would have been easier, but as I attempted to explain last night and mistakenly thought you had comprehended, people of my rank do not work. Not with our hands, not with our backs. A man does not sweat to maintain his standing among the peerage. Sweat is only allowed when he plays or makes love.”

  An image of tiny beads of moisture covering his flesh flashed through her mind. Averting her gaze, she watched the water ripple as he sliced the oars through the river. “I see,” she replied in a strangled voice.

  Did she see? Devon wondered. Did she truly understand what it was to be a peer of the realm? To be constantly scrutinized and judged? To be born into a way of life you were expected to follow regardless of your own desires or dreams?

  To have obligation and duty thrust on you at an early age? To understand your place in society and to know you could never step beyond its boundaries?

  “I’ve acquired the license we’ll need and made arrangements for our marriage to take place Friday morning,” he said somberly, hoping to deflect his morose thoughts.

  She snapped her head around so quickly he heard her neck pop.

  “You really did it, made all the arrangements?”

  She appeared quite alarmed.

  “Have you changed your mind?” he asked quietly. If she had, he would indeed have to woo her.

  “No, of course not. I just”—she tightened her grip on her parasol—“I just never really expected to get married. I haven’t quite settled my mind around the possibility.”

  “Around the certainty, Gina, for I assure you I shall not rescind my offer to marry you.”

  She nodded slowly, but he couldn’t determine if she was relieved or disappointed.

  “Regarding your attire for the wedding, something similar to what you’re wearing today would be appropriate.” He’d been unprepared for her elegance when she’d joined him in Ravenleigh’s library. The simple lines of the dress suited her tall and slender build.

  She gave him a gamin smile that took him off guard with the protective surge it ignited. “I was thinking something more along the lines of the ball gown I wore the night we met. With a few more bows, perhaps.”

  He lost the battle to suppress his groan. At least a wedding arranged on such short notice would garner few attendants. Family only, and if he was fortunate, perhaps they wouldn’t show.

  “You find the bows objectionable?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat to gain precious time to consider how best to respond to her inquiry. During the courting phase of a relationship, he knew a man had to choose his words carefully for fear of offending his intended and thus losing her favor. Although their relationship more closely resembled a business agreement, he was surprised to realize he did want her to welcome the marriage.

  “I hope I do not appear too forward in stating quite emphatically that bows do not suit you.”

  “I suppose instead of bows, I could have used feathers—”

  “God, no!”

  Her smile blossomed, softening the hard angles of her face. “My father has gawd-awful taste in clothes, doesn’t he?”

  “Your father selects your clothing?”

  “Only the ball gowns. He thinks the frillier something is, the more beautiful it becomes. I find them hideous.”

  “If you find them objectionable, why wear them at all?”

  “Because it pleases him when I do.”

  “Do you not realize the unfavorable opinions you generate when you wear such garish clothing?”

  “Why would I care about the opinions of people I don’t know, people for whom I have no feelings?”

  That attitude was going to have to change because, by God, he did care what his peers thought.

  “If my father asked,” she continued, “I’d ride through the streets bare-ass naked.”

  Devon froze, stilling the oars and his breathing as an image of her rose unbidden in his mind, her legs exposed for all the world to see, her hair loosened and cascading around her, offering only tempting glimpses of what lay beneath. He cocked his head forward. “Indeed?”

  She lowered her gaze, the long sweep of her lashes resting on her reddening cheeks. “Not that he would ever ask.”

  “I should hope not.”

  She peered up at him. “It might prove scandalous.”

  “No doubt.” He set the oars back in motion. “So for your father you wear atrocious ball gowns and agree to marry a man you’ve only recently met.”

  She held his gaze. “He means the world to me. I like to see him happy.”

  Devon found himself envying an old man for much more than the money he had at his disposal. “Your father is an extremely fortunate man.”

  She shifted on the seat as though suddenly uncomfortable with his scrutiny. “Actually I ordered a simple white gown just in case you
didn’t change your mind.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t.”

  “I know, but…this has all come about so quickly, and our reasons for marrying—I’m not certain they’re providing us with a strong foundation on which to build a marriage.”

  He set the oars aside, leaned toward her, and took her gloved hand in his. “Among the aristocracy, marriage is seldom dictated by love. More often than not, it resembles an elaborate business arrangement, but contentment is possible. I shall do all in my power to see you do not regret this joining.”

  “Do you resent that you have to resort to marriage in order to gain wealth?”

  With every fiber of his being. He released her hand to prevent his crushing it with his frustrations. “For Huntingdon I gladly do whatever must be done.”

  Her gaze slowly traveled over his face, and he wondered what she hoped to see.

  “Did your first wife regard your marriage as an elaborate business arrangement?” she asked quietly.

  She might as well have thrust a dull knife through his heart. His stomach tightened, and his chest felt as though it was caving in on him. He swallowed hard to push down the lump rising in his throat. “No. Margaret was gravely disappointed in our marriage, in me. I thought love would sustain us. I was wrong.”

  “So you’ve just proven your words false. Your marriage was dictated by love.”

  “For a time.”

  “What precisely disappointed her?” she asked.

  “Poverty that neither of us expected when we married,” he murmured.

  “How could you not expect it?”

  “When we were first married, my father was still alive, and we enjoyed prosperity. Margaret and I were young. Margaret brought with her a small dowry. I was only just beginning to take on the responsibilities of Huntingdon.

  “After my father died, I discovered that he’d made several bad investments, which began our downfall. I thought I could rectify matters rather quickly, but the next few years brought poor harvests that worsened our situation. Margaret did not take our decline well.”

  “Her disappointment must have wounded you.”

  “Wounds heal.”

  “But they can leave ugly scars.”

  Ah, yes, that they could. Straightening, he grabbed the oars and began to row with the urgency of a man striving to escape the demons that plagued him.

  Chapter 6

  A s the carriage wheels whirred, Georgina studied the man sitting across from her. She’d lowered her lashes, hoping she wouldn’t appear obvious as she peered at him. She knew it was rude to stare, but she couldn’t contain her curiosity.

  When he’d first helped her into the carriage, she’d sat where he was now. It had seemed only fair. He’d ridden traveling backward on the way to the spot where he’d taken her for a boat ride. She felt she should travel with her back to the horses on the journey away from the river.

  However, he’d refused to hear of it. They might have even gotten into an argument over it if he hadn’t ground out through clenched teeth, “It’s simply not done.”

  She was beginning to despise that phrase. Apparently a lady was always given the honor of traveling forward. It was a small thing, but it bothered her. She didn’t know why. He wouldn’t have hit her if she’d refused to move to her side of the carriage. Instinctively she knew that.

  But neither would he have been willing to back down. He had certain expectations, rigid expectations, that governed his life. They would have waited by the river until the cows came home or until she relented.

  Therefore she’d relented. She didn’t feel weak for having given in. It was really a silly custom, like most of their conventions, but she was beginning to realize life with him would be a series of compromises, mostly on her part. She would have to select her battles carefully.

  Women were gifted when it came to bending. Men tended to break.

  Her mother had taught her that valuable lesson by example. When Georgina was younger, she would get annoyed with her mother because she never seemed to stand up for herself. She was always doing for her husband, always giving in. Georgina knew her mother had resented the constant traveling, but she’d only shed silent tears and never voiced her objections.

  Georgina didn’t quite understand the fine line one walked in marriage. She wondered if Huntingdon—Sheridan—Devon—Lord Huntingdon—my lord did.

  Merciful heavens! Why did these people have to be known by so many names?

  She knew cowboys who had one name only. She lifted a corner of her mouth thinking of Magpie, the one who had taught Tom all he knew. The man went by only one name. Pure and simple. She knew what to call him.

  “What amuses you?” Devon asked.

  She lifted her lashes to view him more clearly in the shadowy confines of his fine carriage. With its comfortable seats, it rocked gently. At one time his family must have possessed everything.

  “I was thinking about all your names. Where I come from, it’s not unusual for a man to have only one name.”

  “Ah, I see. If I were to live in Texas, I would simply be Devon Sheridan.”

  She shook her head slightly. “Just Devon or just Sheridan.”

  One of his brows shot up in a perfect arch. “Indeed?”

  “I know a man and his sole name is Magpie. Not Mr. Magpie or Lord Magpie. We simply call him Magpie.”

  “How did he come to have such an ignominious name?”

  She wasn’t certain if he was amused with her or at her, but she thought he was at least interested in what she was saying. “I think because he chatters all the time.”

  “I assume he’s an orphan.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s not uncommon in Texas for a man to simply go by one name. Especially cowboys. A lot of the men are loners. Some came to Texas to start over, and they left their names behind.”

  “I daresay, fearful of being found out. I suppose you find the notion romantic.”

  She lowered her gaze to her hands clasped in her lap. She found it difficult to organize her thoughts when those amazingly blue eyes of his were focused intently on her.

  “I’m not faulting you for being of a fanciful bent,” he said quietly.

  She snapped her head up. “I didn’t think you were. I—I can’t describe it. I don’t find it romantic. I find it sad…lonesome. I’m not sure if it takes a lot of gumption or desperation to leave everything behind, including the name your mother gave you.”

  “I should think it takes a bit of both. Aren’t you leaving everything behind?”

  “I don’t feel as though I am. I mean I can always go home to Texas. I don’t think these men who go by one name can return home. I’m not even sure if they have one anymore.”

  He turned his attention to the passing scenery, placing his profile in sharp relief, like the craggy terrain of a mountain in the farthest part of west Texas. The sun, wind, and heat sculpted the land. She couldn’t help but wonder what had carved his features. It took more than handsome ancestors to create the character she saw reflected in his face. But she didn’t know him well enough to guess at all that might have shaped him. She wondered if she ever would.

  She watched a muscle in his jaw jerk as though he fought to unclench his teeth.

  “Once we are wed, England will be your home.” He’d fired each word precisely as though alerting her that she had little say in the matter.

  “No.”

  He shifted his gaze to her, and she saw the challenging glint there. But this aspect of their arrangement she would not give in on.

  “I’ll live in England,” she said quietly, “but Texas will always be my home.”

  “We shall see.”

  He looked incredibly smug. She should have found this unattractive. Instead she realized it was the first time he seemed completely confident of the outcome. Did he think she would come to love the land of his birth or simply forget about hers?

  “Indeed we shall,” she responded, mimicking his hoity-toity accent.

&nb
sp; He chuckled low, the absolute mirth taking her by surprise. Had she really ever heard him laugh? Such a somber lot these Brits. She couldn’t imagine living within the confines of their myriad rules. She wondered how Lauren’s mother had ever adjusted.

  “Why did you insist on sitting on that side of the carriage?” she asked.

  Why indeed? Devon wondered. Now that they were engaged, it would have been entirely appropriate for him to sit beside her. He supposed, in retrospect, he should have, but they were rushing headlong into marriage, and he preferred to ease into the relationship—although he admitted the leisurely journey would come to an abrupt halt in two days’ time.

  “Because when sharing a carriage with a lady, a gentleman always sits so he is the one who travels backward.”

  “Another one of your society’s rules,” she stated flatly.

  “Precisely. Tradition. Without it you have nothing.”

  She curled her fingers around the parasol resting in her lap as though she was a bit disappointed with his answer. He doubted she’d ever used a parasol before today. While sitting in the boat, she’d carried it as she might an umbrella—to ward off a deluge of rain.

  “In Texas, a gentleman would have shown me deference and let me sit where I wanted,” she said.

  “For a woman who claims to have never been kissed, you seem to possess an inordinate amount of knowledge about the way gentlemen in Texas treat ladies.”

  “A man can be polite without having an interest in a woman.”

  “I grow weary of comparing our two societies. However, may I point out in my own defense”—as though it was needed, which he thought almost angrily it should not be—“I chose to honor tradition and place myself in the position of being the one to suffer ill effects from the journey.”

  Her brow furrowed, and the lines around her mouth deepened as it curled downward. “I don’t understand.”

  “Many ladies find riding backward unsettles their stomach. Makes them queasy. Watching what has passed before us is not as pleasing as watching what lies ahead. Therefore, out of consideration for your sensibilities, I sat here.”

  “No, you didn’t.”