Bride by Contract

by Margaret Rome

  Bride by Contract

  By

  Margaret Rome

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BRIDE BY CONTRACT

  Troy Belvoir walked into Lady Morva's life and took it over. But just why had he married her? Was she really just part of a business contract? Or did his marriage vows mean something to him?

  Books you will enjoy

  by

  MARGARET ROME

  RAPTURE OF THE DEEP

  The disagreeable Leon Casson, Director of Operations on a huge Shetland oil rig, had not wanted Catriona Dunross as his secretary— and she had only taken the job because family commitments had forced her hand; but there they were, stuck with each other. In the ensuing fight, who would win?

  LORD OF THE LAND

  Frances had only gone to Andalusia to try to finish the book her father had been writing before he died, and she hoped to enlist the help of the local grandee, the aloof Conde Romanes de los Nomandos y Aguila. But he, it soon turned out, required something in return from her…

  BAY OF ANGELS

  In Cannes during the Film Festival week, with an ambitious actress friend, poor Cherry was feeling thoroughly out of her depth. She was neither an actress nor ambitious, and all she wanted was to get away. So it was particularly unfortunate that the saturnine Lucien Tarascon, Duc de Marchiel, should have got entirely the wrong impression of her…

  CASTLE OF THE LION

  Really Petra only had herself to blame that her spoilt young brother had landed himself in serious trouble in Cyprus and was calling for her to come and get him out of it. And the only man who could help her was the stern Stelios Heracles—and Petra was the only one who could pay his price…

  First published in Great Britain 1984

  by

  Mills & Boon Limited

  © Margaret Rome 1984

  Australian copyright 1984

  Philippine copyright 1984

  This edition 1984

  ISBN 0 263 74876 6

  CHAPTER ONE

  A mist had descended, a fine grey stole that had wreathed around the gently sloping shoulders, curved mounds and plunging depths of the Cumbrian Fells, rendering them invisible. The wild, deserted terrain made up of bleak moorland, peat bog, gritstone and rain-drenched heather might have been purposely designed to discourage strangers from lingering, a hermitage of a place that could appeal only to its inhabitants—to herds of horned sheep in the charge of taciturn shepherds; to ravens that clung tenaciously to their territory, refusing to be ousted by the dry, cold Helm Wind; to rabbits and red grouse, partridge and pheasant, and to the girl who sat slumped in a saddle allowing her sure-footed mare to amble homeward at its own chosen place.

  When Morva sighed the mare pricked up her ears and whinnied as if anxious to convey sympathy to the constant companion whose confidences she was accustomed to sharing.

  'The whole countryside seems to be aware of our loss, Clio,' she mused sadly. 'Do you suppose the skies are weeping, the clouds hanging low, the birds silent and the animals still because they too are mourning Daddy's death?'

  Clio trembled to a standstill, her head drooping lower as her rider's sad dialogue continued.

  'William Arthur Percy Eden, Earl of Howgill, Viscount Bowderdale, died as he had lived—quietly, unceremoniously, causing as little upset as possible to his servants and to members of his family. He was all alone in his study,' she winced, 'seated at the desk where he had spent so many hours, months and years studying his beloved books, when he simply closed his eyes and drifted out of a life rendered joyless since the day Mummy walked out on him, enticed by the flattery and costly bribes of a wealthier but very much older man. Even so, after all this time, I think I might have found it possible to have forgiven her even that,'. Morva concluded huskily, 'if only she had shown respect for father's memory by attending his funeral…'

  Clio's head jerked up, responding to a sudden tug upon the reins as her rider shuddered from delving too deeply into the motives of a mother capable of deserting a faithful husband, the handsome, grown-up son she had professed to adore, and an infant daughter, conceived on impulse to alleviate the boredom of approaching middle age, then abandoned without a qualm when romance had swept into her life, offering a tempting prospect of thrills, excitement and rejuvenation.

  Suddenly anxious to be freed of thoughts as desolate and unproductive as the surrounding moorland, Morva dug her heels lightly into Clio's flanks and headed her in the direction of a road winding downhill through woodland to a fertile valley; passing grazing cattle, cultivated fields, over a humped-back bridge, then rising steeply towards the huge scrolled and crested gates of Ravenscrag Castle, family seat of the Earls of Howgill.

  The mist had developed into steadily drizzling rain by the time she had cantered Clio through the castle's parkland, skirted formal gardens, then headed for the rear of an ancient edifice built of local grey stone that appeared to have been sculpted from, rather than erected against, its rocky backdrop. Seconds after they passed beneath a stone archway the sound of hooves clattering against the stone-flagged stable yard alerted a groom, who hurried out of the stables to help Morva dismount.

  'You're wanted in the library, milady,' he informed her urgently. 'Lady Howgill, Viscount Bowderdale, and Mister Kingsale have been waiting ages!'

  Morva clasped a guilty hand to her mouth. Mister Kingsale, her father's solicitor! How could she have forgotten her grandmother's strict injunction not to be late for the reading of the Will!

  Her distressed blush caused the groom's features to twist into a grimace of sympathy for the girl whose peculiar upbringing was a constant source of discussion below stairs. Noting a look akin to panic in large brown eyes that put him in mind of a frightened doe, the slight trembling of a full, sensitively curved mouth, and the worried gesture of fingers combing through a glistening sweep of beech-brown hair clinched at the nape of a childishly slender neck by plastic bobbles, he wondered if Cook could have been right in her withering condemnation of the Dowager Countess of Howgill.

  'Lady Howgill should never have been allowed a free hand in the upbringing of her granddaughter,' she had insisted, 'the age discrepancy is too great! Ever since the day the Countess took over the supervision of the nursery, almost eighteen years ago, she's bullied the poor bairn into submission, moulded her like a piece of clay into her own image of how a young lady should look and behave, turned her into a replica of the prim, rigidly hidebound young ladies who've been bred solely with the marriage market in mind ever since the aristocracy came into existence. The old Countess's ideas are a century out of date,' she had snorted. 'How I pity the bairn—the combination of a solitary upbringing and her grandmother's strong influence has rendered Lady Morva unmarriageable in this day and age!'

  'The Countess will find her a husband, don't you fret,' a young footman had laconically contributed. 'Circumstances haven't changed much over the years. However much the upper classes may strive to appear in sympathy with modern day notions of female emancipation and an individual's right to personal freedom, we can see evidence all around us that the aristocracy's breeding programme is still going strong. Colts may have been allowed to kick over a few more traces; fillies may have been granted a longer rein, nevertheless,' his lips had twisted into a cynical smile, 'having been reared from birth to accept purity of bloodstock as their first priority, the majority eventually respond to the crack of the fa
mily whip. Take Viscount Bowderdale as an example! The whole of London society is aware of his liking for slender, leggy blondes, yet his West Country fiancée is typical of the sturdy-thighed, broad-beamed huntin', shoot-in' and fishin' set!'

  The titter of laughter that had run around the table had aroused Cook's intense family loyalty.

  'Obviously, Lord Percy feels himself duty bound to do everything in his power to redeem the family fortune. Ravenscrag is crammed with costly treasures but unfortunately everything is entailed and death duties are bound to reduce his financial inheritance to a mere pittance.'

  'Thank goodness everything is entailed, otherwise he'd have the contents of the castle under the auctioneer's hammer in less time than it takes to put up an "Antique Auction" sign,' a gardener had sourly observed.

  'Yet he'll survive!' another servant had cut in dryly. 'He's his mother's son, that one, determined to ensure that he gets the best out of life whoever does the paying!'

  A unanimous chorus of assent had almost drowned Cook's sober reflection.

  'I just hope that the late Earl has made ample provisions for his daughter, that his quiet, simple unmercenary nature will hot turn out to be the sum total of her inheritance.'

  Happily unaware of the groom's train of thought, Morva appealed in a breathless rush.

  'Would you look after Clio, please, Thomas? Make certain she gets a good rub down and put a fresh supply of drinking water into her trough. But leave the grooming, I'll do it myself after the meeting. I shouldn't be away more than half an hour.'

  Schooling herself not to break into a run, conscious of her duty to set an example of dignity and grace to any watching servants, Morva hurried into the castle. The exaggerated sound made by the heels of her riding boots upon the chequered marble floor of the Great Hall caused her to wince, expecting any moment to hear her grandmother's voice haranguing her lack of social grace as she made panic-stricken progress towards huge double doors leading into the library.

  In common with most of the rooms inside the castle, the interior was so huge and spacious she was able to slip quietly inside and stand for a few moments unobserved while she recovered her equilibrium. The long, narrow room lined with books from floor to ceiling, with a staircase in one corner leading up to a gallery lined with a rail of mosaic gold, seemed heavy with an atmosphere that felt oppressive. Quickly, she scanned mahogany sofas and chairs; numerous brasses and objets d'art; the leather spines and gilt titles of books which normally projected an aura of comfort and calm, seeking a reason for the presentiment of trouble that had disturbed her senses.

  Her feeling of unease increased as she advanced farther into the room and saw her brother Percy, whose features she had never before seen disturbed by so much as a frown, standing white-faced, apparently frozen to immobility. Then she saw their family solicitor, the usually urbane Mister Kingsale, looking flushed with embarrassment as he attempted to console her grandmother who had shrivelled into an armchair and was actually weeping in public!

  'Granny, whatever's wrong?' Forgetting years of social training, she ran the length of the library and dropped to her knees beside the regal, stately old Countess who placed pride and deportment high upon her list of priorities. But for the first time in living memory strong emotion had crashed with the force of a tidal wave through the old lady's defences, rendering her a frail human wreck, completely overwhelmed by strong emotional currents.

  'Percy…? Mister Kingsale…?' Morva's shocked brown eyes begged for enlightenment. 'What have you been saying to cause Granny such dreadful upset?'

  When both men stared mutely, and no immediate response seemed forthcoming, she rose from her knees to slip an arm around her grandmother's frail shoulders, at the same time attempting to prise away the hands shielding her wrinkled, tear-stained cheeks.

  'Granny, you must stop crying or you'll make yourself ill!' Morva pleaded on a note of fear. 'I'm certain that whoever is responsible for your tears had no intention of being deliberately hurtful.'

  'No, of course he had not!' She barely recognised the harsh voice grating from her brother's lips. 'Father was incapable of deliberate action—ambiguity, vagueness, evasion, yes, but apparently straightforward honesty was more than the ninth Earl of Howgill could handle!'

  Morva stared, shocked speechless by the treacherous tirade aimed at the father who had indulged his only son to the point of satiety, granting his every wish, indulging his every whim, heaping upon his heir excessive evidence of love and kindness. . 'How can you say such things!' she finally managed to stammer. 'You, of all people! Small wonder Granny is so upset if she has been made to listen to such… sacrilegious statements!'

  'Please, I beg of you,' Mister Kingsale attempted to take charge, 'no more recriminations, we must all make an effort to remain calm, to seek some way out of an extremely shocking and embarrassing situation. If you would kindly be seated, Lady Morva. And you, Lord… er… Percy.'

  Much to Morva's puzzlement their solicitor's complexion turned brick red.

  'Lady Howgill,' hastily he turned to address her quietly sobbing grandmother, 'do you wish to acquaint your granddaughter with the contents of the late Earl of Howgill's letter, or shall I?'

  Interpreting the limp wave of her hand as permission to carry on, Mister Kingsale sat down next to Morva and took pity on her bewilderment by placing her suddenly trembling hands between steady, comforting palms.

  'I wish I could find -a way of saving you from distress, Lady Morva,' he began gently, 'but for the sake of your grandmother and brother who are already in a state of shock my explanation has to be brief and blunt.'

  Morva froze, feeling a stirring of fear, conscious of her brother's shoulders squaring as he stood staring out of the window, of a small choking sob coming from the direction of the chair where her grandmother sat huddled, looking every one of her eighty-odd years.

  'In order to avert the possibility of my unpleasant duty becoming too prolonged, I must ask you, Lady Morva, to listen without interruption, to save any questions or remarks until later.'

  When Morva withdrew her hands from his to place them, fists tightly bunched, in her lap,. he nodded approval of this sign of courage and continued gravely.

  'I was instructed by your father when last we met, to hand a sealed envelope to your brother before the reading of the Will. If I had been given the faintest inkling of what the envelope contained I would have given it to your brother in private so that he would have had time to assimilate its shocking contents before having to face his family. As it was,' he sighed regretfully, 'receiving the news as he did was a doubly cruel blow.'

  Morva wanted to move, wanted to signal a message of sympathy and forgiveness to her stricken brother, but her limbs were held rigid, her eyes fixed, teeming with trepidation.

  'The envelope contained a letter and two legal documents.' Mr Kingsale's voice quickened, adopting the speed and precision of one forced to accept responsibility for defusing an unexploded bomb. 'A marriage certificate stating details of your father's marriage to Grace Rhoda Allen, spinster—your mother's maiden name, of course—and dated the sixth day of September, nineteen hundred and forty-five. Also a second certificate,' he cleared his throat before hurrying on, 'showing details of the birth of a son, Percy, to William Arthur Percy Eden and Grace Rhoda Allen on the first day of September, nineteen hundred and forty-four.'

  For long, bewildered seconds Morva's sluggish brain struggled to make sense of the information it had been given, sifting the facts, searching the debris for the bombshell she had been braced to expect. But there was no shock of explosion, just the fizzling of a damp squib. Fear faded from her eyes as almost angrily she accused the anxiety-ridden solicitor.

  'Is that all?' Her amazed glance slid from her motionless brother to her wilting grandmother then back to the solicitor. 'The fact that my brother was born a year before our parents were married would scarcely raise an eyebrow in this enlightened age.'

  The eruption she had been dreading c
ame from the spot where her brother stood. With a bellow of anger he turned on his heel to stride towards her, bending to glower a look of frustration over her bewildered face.

  'Can't you see farther than the end of your nose, you stupid little fool? I was born before our parents were married which means that I am illegitimate! Illegitimate sons are barred from inheriting a title, so as the earldom of Howgill does not descend in the female line, the title, together with Ravenscrag Castle, its contents and surrounding estate, will become the inheritance of some stranger at present unknown who will inevitably want the present occupants turfed out of his future home!'

  The air had cleared, the dust had settled, yet, Morva reflected as she glanced at the other two occupants of Granny's small sitting room, they were all three reacting like victims of shell shock, speaking and moving in a daze, with eyes glazed, emotions stunned into a state comparable with the effect of an anaesthetic injected into a patient whose limb was about to be amputated. Her grandmother had recovered to the extent of insisting that they should act out the charade of eating dinner.

  'The servants must be given no grounds to suspect that anything is amiss,' she had insisted with a mere trace of her usual firmness. 'We must carry on as usual until—' she had swallowed hard then continued bravely, 'the new Earl of Howgill arrives.'

  'Thank you, Buchan.' Vaguely Morva's mind registered the fact that her grandmother was dismissing the hovering butler. 'Lady Morva will pour out the coffee; you may leave us now.'

  Somehow, Morva forced her limbs to respond to the implied command, picking up the heavy silver coffee pot, willing her hands not to tremble as she poured drinks no one wanted into eggshell china cups.