by Eve Pendle
The lord she was currently dancing with was ostentatiously lecturing her on the correct posture in a dance. She wasn’t certain yet he fit the requirements of her father’s will. Was he a peer, or just an arrogant young fop with a courtesy title still belonging to his father? She needed to catch Caroline’s eye and ask her to check, but she was preoccupied with where he might put his feet next.
Grace jerked away from a step threatening her toes and found herself eye level with a set of broad shoulders in a perfectly tailored coat.
“May I cut in.” The intruder’s tone made it a statement, rather than a question.
Grace looked up at the stranger and felt something pitch over in her. His gray eyes shone with roguish amusement, inviting her to share in it. She stared, taking in dark hair, which was fashionably slicked back with macassar, and his square jaw, set off by a wide mouth made for sin… Which she was not going to participate in.
She had been numb since her father died, unable to think of anything but getting Henry back. But the boorishness of a man she wasn’t familiar with, cutting into a dance with her best chance of saving her brother, made her grounded and full of vigor. It took her a few seconds of staring up into his confident expression to recognize her feeling. Anger. Her chin pulled back at his presumption, but as she tried to find the appropriate put-down, the word “no” didn’t emerge.
Her partner spluttered impotently and loosened his grip on her hand. Thus relinquished, she was immediately in this stranger’s arms. Efficiently, he placed her hand on his shoulder and spun her away.
Grace followed his lead, but the feeling of annoyance filled her disproportionately. She didn’t have time for distractions, though it was good to have a tangible presence to be angry with. His small misdemeanor gave an outlet for her frustration at the men and lords who dictated her life.
“I don’t believe we have been introduced, sir,” she said to his top button.
“No, we haven’t.” His cheerful tone refused to acknowledge her implied accusation of bad manners.
“Is the intention I should be impressed by your show of manly dominance? Am I to be bowled over by your disregard for propriety?” Rather than give him the credit of her full attention, she looked past him into the swirl of dancers.
She made the hop step the polka was known for and the man supported her, almost lifted her in it, his touch firm on her waist. Grace clenched her teeth. She wanted to bat away hands seemingly intent on controlling her; she had enough already. At the same time, though, his proximity made her heart beat faster.
No. That was just the vigorousness of the dance.
He chuckled. “You are to be impressed at my initiative in acquiring a dance with the lady everyone is talking about, Miss Alnott.”
She couldn’t deny that this evening she had deliberately courted gossip, so much so that a man as handsome as him must be desperate for money to invite speculation by dancing with her.
“My name is Everett Hetherington, Earl of Westbury.”
A peer. A flicker of interest ignited in her. He might be rude, but he was a lord. What did she expect?
“Now tell me your name.”
What a ridiculous demand. “You’ve already said my name. You heard it bandied around the room, along with the details of my fortune and my requirement of marrying a lord.”
“Alnott, yes, I heard. But it is not really your name, is it?”
Grace frowned, about to object to this patently untrue statement. Another hop in the dance momentarily brought her closer to him. His jawline was strong, and there was a hint of a rough shadow on his chin. Unbidden, she wondered how his rough stubble would feel if it scraped against her cheek.
“It’s a transient title, which you will part with when you marry. Calling you Miss Alnott is like looking at a flask of port and saying it is a bottle.” He turned to her and a hint of a smile emerged in his eyes. “It misses intrinsic importance in favor of the outward appearance. I want to know a name I can call you that will still be true in two months’ time. Your Christian name.”
He asked to call her Grace, as though they were intimates. And he made it sound reasonable. “My name might change, but I will always be an Alnott.” Alnott Stores and her family responsibilities were a part of her, thwarted but resilient.
“And that is who you are? It is your father’s family name. What about your mother or just you?”
The thought of her mother finely sliced her insides. She had promised Mother long ago she would take care of Henry, and she hadn’t seen him in six interminable months.
“Grace,” she answered, trying to stem the hurt.
“Graceful Grace.” There was a smile in his voice.
She clenched her jaw. Her mother had playfully scolded her father when he’d said she ought to live up to her namesake. The memory was a pound weight dropped into the void of her center.
“Are you a title-hunter, Grace?”
If only it were so frivolous. “There is an unusual stipulation in my father’s will. If I don’t marry a peer, I won’t have a dowry.”
“Grace, looking for a peer. It’s a pity I’m not a duke.” He lowered his mouth to her ear. “Then you would have to tell me over and over, as we talked, that you are mine.”
The words and his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her ear sent shivers through her. Pushing back her shoulders, she braced herself. She wasn’t going to make the mistake of falling for a man again. She’d paid the price for her foolishness in heartbreak over Samuel Brooker, then guilt, and worry about her former maid.
“Your Grace.” She ducked away on a turn, and looked at him askance. “No, it would not be right to address you thus. You are merely the lower echelons of the aristocracy. You are my lord.”
“I would happily be your lord. Or perhaps I belong to everyone.” From the corner of her eye, she could see a cynical edge to his smile. He seemed to shake his head, as if to discard the feeling. “What does your father think of your duke hunting?”
“My father is dead.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She didn’t want to talk about her father’s death or her shattered family. It would only make the little shards of glass-like pain in her heart burrow deeper. “What sort of loss is responsible for the financial trouble you are in?”
“My estate is in a dire situation.” He didn’t meet her gaze. “We have suffered from the rinderpest outbreak. Have you heard of it?”
“No.” Her confession caused another curl of resentment to twine around her. The closed off little Swiss finishing school she had attended for the last six months focused on gentle arts and domestic duties. Anything even tangentially related to the political sphere was thought to be the appropriate place for men only. Newspapers, especially English ones, were rare contraband.
“I see.” His tone rang with disapproval. “It is a terrible cattle disease that has swept across the country these past few months, killing all the cows. Well, 90 percent of them, anyhow. That is to say, only one in ten survives,” he added condescendingly.
She knew what a percentage was. Presumably, he thought she was an idiot because she didn’t know about rinderpest. He must think she didn’t take an interest in anything but feminine trivialities. She ought to say she had been abroad, but really, what would be the point?
“Why do you want a share of your dowry?” he asked after three bars of music.
“I have no personal fortune.” Grace felt a mischievous smile creep its way onto her face. If he thought her superficial, why disappoint him? It was defense, too, as her plan to protect Henry was too critical to be gossip. “And I wish to live abroad.”
“Where do you wish to live?” She couldn’t ascertain his opinion from the tone of his voice. Was there a slight depth that hadn’t been there before?
“Paris, Provence, I don’t know yet.” Maybe she’d go back to Switzerland with Henry and they could live in the mountains or next to one of the pure blue lakes.
&nb
sp; He led her around the swirling polka steps faster, spinning them both, forcing her to begin to pant to keep up. “Do you want to live in the countryside or the city?”
She was becoming dizzy with the turns, struggling against the impulse to hold his gaze as a constant in the chaos of silk and color. “Near water,” she gasped out. She’d always liked the restless tranquility of seas and rivers.
His fingers tightened over hers. “Really?”
She saw his grin out of the side of her eye and instinctively tried to hide what she wanted. “Perhaps.”
The music slowed, and he slowed them with it. As the last notes of the music played, they came to a gradual stop in the middle of the room. It forced her to look into his eyes as she released her grip on his shoulder and stepped away. Around them, the other couples were making their way off the dance floor.
“With money, you can live wherever you like.”
“Gracious, I hadn’t thought of that. How silly of me. Now Father has passed on, I can use my dowry, if only I can obtain it, to be independent.” Her heart banged fast and she was almost panting from their dance. “I can’t think why I didn’t realize before you said it.”
He quirked his eyebrow at her, accepting her sarcasm good-naturedly. “Then we understand each other. Shall we be married by special license? If we do not have to wait for the banns, you can get the money to buy new bonnets all the sooner.”
The audacity of the man was outrageous. When he’d talked of rinderpest and the needs of his estate, she had thought he might be responsible and honest, but clearly it was just pride, like all aristocrats.
“You can join the queue of applicants, my lord. At one o’clock.” A queue of only three, but she had placed him at the end of it. She gave him the address where she was staying with her friends the Fishers, then turned and walked away. There weren’t enough lords for her to dismiss him altogether. But still, placing him at the end of the list emphasized she had the power to choose. And to not choose him.
Chapter Two
In the hackney cab back to his rooms, Everett replayed his meeting with Grace. He had been too blunt and not charming enough. He was still too much a soldier and commander, not enough the Earl of Westbury. It had never been of any importance that he, the second son, learn to act like an aristocrat.
Grace’s poise and disdain might be aristocratic, but her cutting wit showed her rebellion. She had been small but strong in his hands, unlike the creature of golden light he’d seen at first. In the candlelit ballroom, it had been difficult to see precisely what color her eyes were, not helped by her keeping them averted as much as possible. There was a flare of anticipation in him at finding out about her tomorrow. The color of her eyes, and other things.
The sparse rooms he arrived at hardly befitted an earl, being little better than much of the accommodation he’d had in the army. But they were inexpensive, without putting him half a day’s ride from London. Consequent to the lack of space, there was no escaping duty, even in his bedroom. His valet had placed the afternoon post onto a table at the side of his bed, awaiting his attention. On the top was a neatly folded telegram. He picked it up.
Ten cattle dead at Bridge Farm Thompson
It had come to this already, then. The lightning of this telegram instantly charred his remaining gaiety from the evening. They’d hoped the cattle plague could be contained north of the river, but from Bridge Farm it would spread through the rest of the Westbury lands. If his thrifty steward had gone to the expense of a telegram, even though he’d removed all the punctuation to reduce the cost, he must be desperate for a reply.
Everett had been ignoring the increasingly urgent missives from Thompson for over a week now. Daily letters arrived, reminding him of what he already knew. Thompson stressed they couldn’t afford to compensate the tenant farmers for the cattle without additional money, and they definitely couldn’t afford to let the disease spread. Everett hadn’t replied, instead spending evening after evening trying to find an heiress with enough money, one whom he wanted to marry, to no avail.
Now he must reply with good news. This morning, he could have written explaining how he required more time to choose the lady who, as well as saving the Westbury estate, he was also to spend his life with. Father children with. Promise to love, honor, and protect.
The image of Grace, in his arms as he spun them around and around, appeared in his mind.
This news made excuses impossible. There were bigger things at stake than whether he could laugh with, and delight in making love to, his wife. It was more important than having a direct heir, as there was always his nephew, Jonny. The estate, the livelihoods of his staff and tenants and all their dependents: they all counted on him getting money.
If he sent news of an impending marriage and what it would net him, Thompson would be able to placate the affected farmers. Enough culling could be done to stop the disease. It would be rather creative with the truth, but there was one lady who was clearly in as immediate and pragmatic need of money as he was. He would persuade her, no matter what it took.
After grabbing paper, ink, and a pen, he wrote a reply.
Dear Thompson. Marriage agreed dowry fifty thousand. Will return within the fortnight. Westbury.
He hesitated at the omission of the fact it wouldn’t be a real marriage. Thompson had been his lieutenant in bloody times and deserved Everett’s honesty. But it wasn’t even agreed yet, so that was already an exaggeration. What would be the harm in another omission? His pride grumbled at the thought of telling his steward, or anyone else, he would be entering a sham marriage. He had delayed too long and now must do whatever was required to secure money to save the estate.
He was uneasy, but that was usual. He was the son who should not have been earl, just the second son who ought to have been killed honorably in war. He had none of the social training an earl ought to have, so surely, a marriage of convenience would suit him. He was determined to make up for the neglect of the last two Earls of Westbury. If that meant deception, so be it.
…
The next morning, Grace’s feeling of emptiness had returned. Caroline and Maurice had filled out the list of potential husbands the previous evening, but it didn’t seem to be to any avail. Each time another man arrived, she and her friends-cum-chaperones sat down, and he explained his situation. And every time the door shut, Grace exchanged a worried look with Maurice, avoided Caroline’s eyes, and focused on the floor. They were totally unsuitable. By one o’clock, Grace had a gnawing sensation in her stomach, not wholly due to not having eaten breakfast.
“Lord Westbury,” the Fishers’ butler announced.
Grace’s heart beat faster with uncalled-for excitement.
The light of the Fishers’ morning room, which they had taken as an interview and strategy room of sorts, revealed a different sort of man to the teasing rake she had met last night. He was tall with wide shoulders, making his presence fill the whole room. His dark hair was slightly rumpled from the wind outside, but his coat and cravat had been pulled straight. Grace watched him appraise the room, tracking his movements with her eyes. Forcing her gaze to focus on the wall to his side, she took a deep, filling breath through her nose. Her curiosity about him was not sensible.
To squash the unwelcome pique of interest, she plowed straight into the issue at hand as soon as he was seated. After all, a man who cut in on another man’s dance deserved no polite consideration.
“My lord, I will outline the terms of our proposed agreement.”
Maurice looked at her disapprovingly, presumably at her abrupt tone.
“I desire to live independently abroad, perhaps spending a little time in Richmond or some other quiet place near London.”
They’d decided not to mention the situation with Henry. There was too much of a risk with the well-meaning meddling of an ignorant lord collapsing the whole plan. She’d trusted Samuel during their engagement to keep faith and he hadn’t. One couldn’t depend on men, either to keep th
eir word, or not to spoil even the most effective of plans.
She continued, “I have three requirements, and I need your assurance on several points. In return, you will receive twenty-five thousand pounds.”
Lord Westbury raised a hand for her to stop. “I heard the amount would be fifty thousand.”
He thought to have all her money. She looked straight at his attractive face, heart flutters gone. “One cannot believe everything gossips say, my lord. Fifty thousand pounds is my whole fortune. I will give you half only.”
A harried look swept across his face. But it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and he replied, “Very well. Please continue.”
“Are you a peer?” she asked baldly.
“I am Everett Hetherington, twelfth Earl of Westbury and seventh Viscount of Castlemaine,” he said awkwardly.
Grace tilted her head in inquiry. “You don’t sound like you are.”
“No, I don’t,” he agreed wryly, sitting forward in his chair and bracing his elbows against his knees. “Until recently, I was in the army. I am far more familiar with the epithet Lieutenant Colonel Hetherington.”
Beside her, Caroline started to leaf through the tome of Burke’s Peerage to verify his claim.
“We would need to legally marry as soon as possible,” Grace said.
“I have no objection to haste.”
No, men in need of money did not seem to. “You will have to sign a declaration before we marry, postdated, giving me sole access to half of my dowry. A second declaration disavowing all claim on me, stating we’ve never consummated the marriage, and declaring your enduring intention to seek an annulment, will also be necessary.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Annulment? Is that necessary?”
“Not if we can continue amicably.” Everything would be easier as a married woman, but an annulment could free her. “But you will understand I would have to have some insurance.” She couldn’t afford to walk into a trap of her own making.
He nodded soberly.
