by Anne Gracie
He said incredulously, “You’re turning down the experience of a London season and all it has to offer, in favor of a dreary job keeping schoolgirls in order?”
“Isn’t that what you want me to do with your sisters?” She gave him a swift half smile as if to take the sting out, but he wasn’t fooled.
She smoothed the lace gloves again. “Your offer is very tempting, I admit. But that’s part of the problem. After a year or two of living the high life in London, it would be very hard to adjust to this life . . . again.” She said the last word on a breath, so softly he almost didn’t catch it.
“So you’re choosing to hide away here in a drab little girls’ school, instead of taking a risk?”
She gave him a startled glance. “Nonsense. There’s no question of my hiding.” She lifted her chin and said with crisp authority, “I like teaching, Lord Ashendon, and I enjoy working with schoolgirls. Moreover, as headmistress, I will be able to make some innovations to the curriculum and operation of the school. I find the prospect quite stimulating. And challenging.”
He snorted. “If you say so. I don’t believe I mentioned the size of the bonuses.” He named a sum that made her blink.
“It is indeed substantial,” she admitted.
He frowned. “But you’re still refusing me.”
She nodded. “A woman like me”—he assumed she meant poor and single—“must look to her future. The position of headmistress here is, more or less, a position for life, and I would be foolish to risk long-term security for short-term gain. So yes, my mind is made up. But thank you for considering me. Good-bye.”
He rose to his feet, severely put out, and made his good-byes brusquely. He collected his hat, gloves and coat from the dragon at the door, flung on his coat, jammed his hat on his head and strode off down the street.
Dammit, where was he going to find another female so suitable? He thrust his hands into his leather gloves. How could she—how could anyone—turn down the opportunity for a glamorous year or two in favor of—what did she call it? A position for life.
Galbraith’s words from the previous night echoed in his head. A tenant for life.
He stopped, stock-still in the street, staring at nothing. People stepped around him, giving him curious looks and muttering about the inconsideration of some people. He ignored them. His mind had seized on an idea.
He turned and marched back toward Miss Mallard’s Seminary for the Daughters of Gentlemen.
* * *
Emm made no move to leave the room. She had twenty minutes before her next lesson. He’d closed the door behind him when he left, and she knew the moment she opened it and stepped outside, Theale would be waiting, wanting to know why Lord Ashendon had come to speak to her, instead of Miss Mallard, again. Theale was as inquisitive as she was mean-spirited.
Emm wanted a few minutes to herself, to consider what had just happened in peace. Solitude was a rare and precious thing at Miss Mallard’s. As was privacy.
So you’re choosing to hide away here in a drab little girls’ school, instead of taking a risk?
His careless accusation had shocked her. From a stranger who didn’t know her at all, it had cut very close to the bone. Was she hiding?
She had been hiding when she first came here. Hiding from the world, the gossip and horrid speculation, but mostly from the pain of Papa’s betrayal. His lack of faith in her, his belief in the words of others—false words, false accusations.
His demand that because of malicious gossip she marry a man she did not love. His ultimatum. His last living words to her, as it turned out.
She’d refused, fled like a wounded creature and, somehow, ended up at the school. She hadn’t known where else to go. There were no relatives to turn to. Her friends in the district had either shunned her or been horridly awkward and distressed, not knowing what to believe. Such was the gossip, her presence would taint them.
One mistake, one heartfelt foolish girlish mistake that had come back to haunt her. Because at one time, years before, she had been foolish, had acted recklessly and rashly placed her trust in a man.
And after that, after the heartbreak, she’d been grateful for the forgiveness of her father. A forgiveness that didn’t even last five years.
She hadn’t ever traveled much outside the local area, except to go away to school. So in her blind distress, she’d fled to the only other place she knew: her old school.
Miss Mallard had taken her in, heard her story, tut-tutted a bit and given Emm a job and a place to live.
Was she still hiding? No. Lord Ashendon was wrong. It was loyalty that kept Emm here, not cowardice. She owed Miss Mallard a debt of gratitude.
She picked at a hole in her crocheted glove. She’d been here seven years. That was a lot of gratitude. Did she owe Miss Mallard a lifetime? A week ago, when the future of the school and her position was in doubt, she’d felt quite desperately insecure, wondering what on earth she would do if the school closed.
Now she had the promise of the headmistress-ship, and Emm’s future and that of the school was assured—and the plans she had for it would make it the best young ladies’ seminary in Bath.
And yet his accusation that she was hiding away from the world had rattled her.
Because there was an element of truth in it? Perhaps more than just an element.
Or was it Lord Ashendon himself who’d rattled her?
She appeared to be foolishly susceptible to his good looks. And the gentlemanly way he’d escorted her home the other night. And that far-from-gentlemanly kiss.
She’d thought of it, and him, more than once—oh, who was she fooling? She thought of him every night, alone in her small attic bedroom.
As pathetic spinsters were rumored to do—spinning unlikely fantasies about men they hardly knew.
The moment Theale had told her he was waiting downstairs and had requested private conversation with her, Emm had felt the most ridiculous fluttering. She’d even removed her spinster’s cap—just to tidy her hair, she’d told herself—but she hadn’t put the cap back on. Theale had noticed and given her a scornful sniff and a knowing look.
He’d smiled when she arrived, and it had taken Emm a few seconds to gather her wits. He was tall and broad-shouldered and so assured that somehow he seemed to fill the room. She’d found a hole in her gloves and occupied herself in keeping it hidden. She really ought to make herself another pair.
He’d outlined his plan, and Emm had forced herself to look past the handsome face, those intriguing gray eyes and the knowing, clever mouth, and concentrate on his words. His very damning words.
Like many of the parents of the girls here, he was careless of the real needs of his half sisters and niece, more interested in his own convenience than anything else. The other day she’d thought—or imagined—that he seemed sincerely worried about them.
Today she’d seen him in his true colors.
A bonus for firing them off. Like cannons. Pushed into marriage whether they were ready or not. And would he care whom they married? Would he even give them a choice?
No, just a bonus to whoever got them off his hands within the year.
But no girl should be pushed into marriage, and Emm would never be a party to such a scheme, no matter how large or tempting the bribe. For call it what you like, that bonus was nothing more than a bribe.
He might be selfish, superficial and self-centered, but he wasn’t stupid. That accusation he’d made about her hiding away was quite . . . perceptive.
Now with time to reflect a little more calmly—and without his presence to distract and, and beflutter her—she could admit that there was some truth, a very small amount, in what he’d said.
Nevertheless, she didn’t regret her decision at all. Not one little bit. She would make a good and useful life for herself here in the school. It might not be glamorous or exciting
, but it would be a worthwhile life.
And if that thought didn’t precisely cheer her up, well, she hadn’t slept well last night, that was all. A good and useful life would be quite sufficient. And very safe.
* * *
The sound of voices in the hall caught her attention. It sounded like an argument. Theale and . . . a man?
Before she could go to see what the problem was, the door flew open and Lord Ashendon stood there again, taking up all the space. And the air. “See, she is still here,” he said. He turned to Emm. “Tell this dra— female that you are willing to speak to me. She seems to imagine I’m going to attack you or something.”
“He just pushed his way in—” Theale began.
“It’s quite all right, Miss Theale, I will speak to Lord Ashendon,” Emm told her. She shut the door and waved him to a seat. “Did you forget something? I have a class in five minutes.”
“I won’t take long.”
She waited.
He was still carrying his hat. He fiddled with it a moment, smoothing the brim between his gloved thumb and fingers. He set the hat down on the small table at his elbow and crossed his legs. He cleared his throat.
She waited.
He uncrossed his legs and tugged off his fine leather gloves, setting them down beside his hat.
“My class starts in three minutes, Lord Ashendon,” she prompted. “Is there something else you wanted to say to me?”
“Yes, dammit, I’m getting to it,” he snapped. He swallowed, then fixed her with those hard gray eyes, like a butterfly on a pin. “You want a position for life. Very well, I’ll marry you.”
There was a short stunned silence while Emm tried to gather her wits. Then, “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” He seemed to realize his rudeness, and said in a hard voice, “I just asked you to marry me.”
“Oh, it was a question, was it?” she said dryly. She was pleased to hear her words come out quite calmly. It wasn’t at all how she felt. Her insides were madly churning.
He was talking marriage? To a woman he barely knew, whom he’d met four times?
And kissed once.
His jaw tightened. He straightened his shoulders, as if about to face a firing squad. “Would you do me the honor of marrying me, Miss Westwood?”
Emm swallowed. They were words she’d never dreamed of hearing again, although the delivery left something to be desired. But the question itself made as much sense as some of her wilder fantasies. She forced herself to ask in as steady a voice as she could manage, “Why? Why would you want to marry me?”
He frowned as if the answer was obvious. “You said security for a lifetime was what mattered most to you. Marriage will give you that. And as my wife, you will be in a much better position to introduce the girls to the ton. You’ll have the authority and influence that a mere chaperone or governess would not.”
Emm couldn’t believe her ears. He was still conducting the job interview. Only this time the offer on the table was marriage.
Like the job description he’d made earlier, she was to supervise and arrange the launch in society of his half sisters and niece, accompany them, be responsible for them, and so on. But instead of a wage and bonuses, she would receive a generous annual allowance for as long as she lived; the use of any and all of his properties, as she wished; a carriage and team. To sum up, she would perform all the usual duties of a wife.
As Emm listened, doubts trickled coldly down her spine, dousing the flush of unwary warmth that had flowed through her. It was too good to be true. It was—it must be a joke at her expense.
Rich, handsome and wildly eligible earls did not make offers of marriage to women they barely knew. Especially not to women of no particular beauty, no fortune and no standing in the world. Who’d been on the shelf for years.
If he truly wanted a wife to launch his sisters, he had only to lift his finger and dozens of the pretty, well-connected young ladies currently on the London marriage mart would flock to accept his hand. He’d find almost as many in Bath—she’d heard about the stir his appearance in the Pump Room had caused.
No, he was angry with her for refusing his generous job offer, and now he was making this proposal as some kind of twisted revenge. He and his friends would probably laugh about it later in their horrid clubs.
About the foolish susceptible spinster.
Ridiculous how it hurt, nevertheless.
“You cannot be serious,” she said crisply, rising from her seat. “I must go, I have a class to teach.”
He stood, frowning. “You don’t believe me.” He said it as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
She searched his face. He looked almost convincing. But she didn’t, couldn’t believe him. Mustering all the dignity she could, she said quietly, “Good-bye, Lord Ashendon,” and held out her hand.
He took it in both hands. “I make the offer in all sincerity, but I understand you might need some time to consider it.”
She said nothing. She couldn’t. His hands were warm, cupping hers, so much smaller and icy cold by contrast.
He scanned her face and gave a brisk nod. “Think it over. I’ll call on you tomorrow at nine to hear your response. Good day, Miss Westwood. I’ll show myself out.” He picked up his hat and gloves, bowed to her and left.
Emm stared at the closing door, distantly registering the click as it shut, and then her legs started trembling. She collapsed bonelessly onto her chair, her mind awhirl with possibilities and counterpossibilities. Marriage? To Lord Ashendon?
A moment later the door opened again. She tensed, but it was only Theale. “You’re going to be late for your lesson.” Theale loved to catch people in the wrong.
“I know. I’m coming,” Emm managed, and rose shakily to her feet.
Theale’s eyes gleamed with suspicion. “You look rattled. What did he want?”
Emm shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
* * *
Emm began her lesson in somewhat of a daze. Lord Ashendon’s proposal kept buzzing around her brain like a swarm of contradictory bees, flinging out questions, impossible-to-answer questions.
He’d claimed the offer was sincere. He’d sounded as if he meant it!
But he couldn’t possibly be serious! Who would choose an obscure country teacher to launch his high-spirited, high-bred sisters into society? The cream of society, at that.
And why Emm, of all people, a woman he’d met on a bare handful of occasions? Because she was here, under his nose? Because she’d given him no encouragement? Because he didn’t like to be crossed? Because he had to win?
She had no answers. Luckily a class of lively girls soon pulled her back to reality.
She didn’t stop for a minute all day, which helped put things at a distance. Finally, well after dinner, when the girls were all in bed, Emm finally got the chance to slip up to her room and think. She sat on her bed, pulling the thin, worn counterpane around her for warmth.
Whether it made sense to her or not, he had asked her to marry him. The more she thought about it, the less he seemed like the kind of man who would joke about such a thing. Marriage.
She walked to her window and stared blindly out into the dark night.
All the usual duties of a wife.
She pressed cold, shaking hands to her cheeks. He was Lord Ashendon. Of course he would want an heir.
She hardly knew him. She would be placing her life—and body—in the hands of a man she’d met four times. And didn’t much like.
But whose face and body haunted her dreams.
His plan hadn’t changed, just the payment. He would probably want to marry Emm in quick order, place the girls in her hands and return to whatever drew him on the Continent.
Presumably he planned to impregnate her before he left. She wasn’t even going to think about that—oh, wh
o was she fooling? She could think of very little else.
But he didn’t want Emm herself—how could he? He didn’t even know her, had shown no interest in who she was, where she’d come from or how she’d come to be working in the school she’d once attended as a pupil.
He didn’t care who she was. He just wanted someone on whom he could dump his problems and then leave. Someone who wouldn’t have any choice in the matter. A wife.
Oh, lord.
But oh, she would have security for life. And, God willing, a baby of her very own . . .
Rose and Lily would be her sisters-in-law, and Georgiana, the girl she hadn’t yet met, her niece by marriage. They’d have a London season together, a first for all four of them. She could ensure that the girls weren’t forced into marriage. She’d let them choose for themselves, and Emm would make sure the men they picked were worthy of her girls.
Her girls. Sisters, a niece and a child of her own. After all this time, a family.
She undressed swiftly and slipped into bed. The hot brick was waiting for her, thawing her frozen toes. Thank you, Milly.
She lay in bed, shivering with a combination of cold, excitement and apprehension. And prayed that he meant it.
Chapter Eleven
I . . . chose my wife as she did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities as would wear well.
—OLIVER GOLDSMITH, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
“I’ve come for my answer.” Lord Ashendon stood in front of the fireplace, booted feet apart, hands linked behind his back, dominating the room. “Will you marry me?”
Emm’s throat was dry. “Yes, Lord Ashendon, I will marry you.”
“Excellent. I’ve instructed my lawyer to draw up the marriage settlements. I will want the business conducted as soon as possible . . .”
Emm stood there, shaking. She’d just agreed to marry Lord Ashendon. With one short sentence she’d changed her life, wholly and dramatically. She felt hollow inside, strangely bereft.
