Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress

by Theresa Romain

  Frances could only stare. “No one’s ever asked for my help before.”

  Now he looked surprised. “Really? But it seems so obvious.”

  A brittle laugh popped out. “To you, perhaps, but not to the ton. I assure you, Mr. Middlebrook, there’s nothing obvious about looking to the right hand of the most sought after woman in London.”

  She realized her blunder at once, and her cheeks went awkwardly hot. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have referred to… oh, that wasn’t well done of me.”

  The earl’s brother tilted his head, then shook it. “Please don’t feel you must avoid common figures of speech. I’m well aware that our language includes many references to right hands and arms.”

  Frances drew in a long breath. “Thank you for that. I must say, your manners are quite as pretty as anyone could hope.”

  His mouth curved on one side, denting his cheek. “It’s not good manners, but frankness. I’d much prefer not to have people ignore my injury. I won’t be able to rejoin society if others pity me.”

  Pity. The word was so small yet so terrible. Frances had met pity before, and the two had parted as enemies. “I understand. And I assure you I meant only to apologize for something that might have seemed unfeeling. I’ve known other soldiers before you. None of them wanted pity as much as they wanted a good meal and a quick tumble.”

  He choked. “You really are a little terrifying.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  She had thought his face stern, his smiles carefully measured. But now it broke into a grin, quick and sunny and full of mischief, and she caught her breath at the sweet suddenness of it. “No, you’re quite right,” he said. “Add a soft bed, and I do believe you would capture every soldier of my acquaintance.”

  “A good thing you’re not a soldier anymore, then, as London offers beds and meals and tumbles aplenty.”

  His shoulders shook. “I hadn’t expected such plain speech in a ballroom, I admit.”

  Her stomach gave a sweet little flip. He hadn’t exactly given her a compliment, but it was a tiny triumph to surprise this man. She was beginning to find him intriguing, with his wounds and his frankness, his humor and determination.

  And intriguing was not something she came across very often when talking with Caroline’s suitors. Frances was famished for intriguing. Especially when intriguing had intent blue eyes and captured her in conversation.

  She dragged her thoughts back into crisp order. “Caroline tolerates it, fortunately. As a companion to a countess, frankness serves me well. I am her second set of eyes and ears, and if I do not report accurately, I cannot help her.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Will you be reporting on me, then? Perhaps I ought to fetch you some wine instead of the orgeat my brother inflicted upon you.”

  “You needn’t get me inebriated in order to get a favorable report.”

  “Oh? What must I do?”

  Nothing more than you already have. She flexed the sticks of her fan again, far too hard, and the cracked ivory snapped. “You’ve told me the truth about what you want, and you’ve asked for my help. That’s singular enough.”

  “You’ve broken your fan,” he said with a nod at the wounded accessory.

  “It’s not mine,” Frances blurted. Her fingers felt clumsy on the fragile, ruined ivory. “Please, never mind it.”

  He studied her for a long moment, and she drew herself up as tall as she could. She was a baronet’s daughter by birth, after all. There was no need to become agitated under the scrutiny of this golden man, who asked and noticed things that no one else did.

  So she told herself—yet as he studied her, her blood seemed to rush a little more quickly through her veins. Though she sat carefully straight, she thought of… rolling over.

  Ridiculous. It had been far too long, that was all; her imagination was as overheated as this ballroom. “About Caroline,” she said in a voice that was all business. “You want my help in courting her.”

  He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the arm of his chair. “Help with courtship sounds a bit excessive. What if we limit it to advice?”

  “Oh, certainly. I’m excellent at giving advice.”

  He smirked. “I’ve heard that often this evening.”

  Frances drew her chin back. “What? That I inflict advice on people?”

  Again, that quick mischievous grin. “No, no. I can’t speak to that, having only just met you. But the whole of the ton has been remarkably free with advice tonight, much to my good fortune.”

  Ha. She could well imagine. Everyone would want to be the first, the closest to a man retrieved from the violent mysteries of war—whether he returned as a prodigal son or a hero.

  “That is indeed fortunate,” Frances replied. “That the advice has been free, I mean. Few could bear the cost if the ton began to charge for its helpful instructions.”

  Henry’s expression grew self-conscious. “Indeed, yes. Within one minute of entering the ballroom, our hostess recommended several remedies that she swore could not fail to restore my youthful glow.”

  Frances would have laughed if she had not thought he might take it amiss. If there was anything he lacked, it was not a youthful glow. His skin shone the healthy brown of long days spent outdoors, while under the stark cut of his austere black and white clothing, his muscles showed long and lean. No one who really looked at him could think Henry Middlebrook was anything in the common way.

  Her stomach did another little flip, but she managed a calm tone. “Do you plan to take all the advice that has been shoveled upon you?”

  He shifted in his chair, hitching one foot across the other knee. “I could not if I wanted to. I have been advised both to take rest and take exercise, to eat heartily and to starve myself. I am not to closet myself away, nor should I monopolize the attention of the young ladies.”

  A shadow flitted over his light eyes for a second, then the satirical glint returned to them.

  Frances nodded as though this recitation made perfect sense. “You must be the most fortunate man in this ballroom. Not only to be so taxed by the good wishes of caring friends, but then to be able to discard all of their contrary advice without a bit of guilt. I hope you’ve found the evening enjoyable despite the burdens placed upon you.”

  He settled himself more firmly against the back of his chair, considering. “Do you know, I think I have. Will I see you tomorrow at Lady Stratton’s house?”

  “Of course. I’ll be the one flinging advice at people and breaking all the fans. Someone must play that essential role.”

  He studied her through narrowed eyes. She narrowed hers right back, and he grinned, then turned his head toward the couples winding their way through the final patterns of the dance.

  “You would have made a good soldier, Mrs. Whittier,” he said. “I shall be fortunate if you agree to fight on my side.”

  Frances did not pretend to misunderstand. “A word in Caroline’s ear at the right moment? Tell her how fond you are of starving and gorging yourself?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Not that, please. But any and every other inconsequentiality that might be of help. If you don’t mind, of course.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ll be happy to help if I can.”

  “I’m sure Lady Stratton values your opinion.”

  “She might if I dispensed it less freely. But I shall give it to her, for what it’s worth.” She offered him a smile, wishing for a little more of Caroline’s verve.

  “I won’t press you for more than that,” he said. “You’re very generous. Only keep her from forgetting my name, and let me know if she has any particular likes or dislikes. I shall endeavor to do the rest.”

  Forget his name? Surely not. Would he remember hers, though?

  The music came to an end, and the ballroom began to shift in new patterns as a hubbub of voices replaced the
tune of the orchestra. Frances caught a glimpse of Lord and Lady Tallant through the swirl of the crowd. They’d be back in less than a minute, all curiosity. What could Hal and Mrs. Whittier have to talk about for so long?

  “Not roses,” Frances said in a rush. “Caroline doesn’t care for roses because they’re so often given. Bring something more unusual when you call.”

  Middlebrook studied her again. “Thank you. I’ll make sure that I do.”

  With Lord and Lady Tallant now almost at his side, he stood and inclined his head, a gesture of farewell that she realized would not draw attention to his injured arm.

  Frances wanted more than a distant nod; she wanted to reach him. Before she thought, her hands stretched out to clasp his—first the left, then the twisted right.

  She had never done such a thing before. Her own body startled her.

  It startled her too that she felt the pressure of his fingers so deeply; they warmed her with a heat nothing like the crush of the summer crowds. His gloved hands were strong within hers.

  He stared at her, his lips parted as if he were about to speak, but the words had melted before they reached the air. She realized her face wore the same expression, and she pressed her mouth into a proper smile and released his fingers.

  “Until tomorrow,” Frances said in a louder tone to cover her bewilderment. Thoughts in a tumult, she looked down at the sensible dark blue crape of her gown as though it required all of her attention.

  She still had no idea what terrified him. And that terrified her a little. In a good way.

  Oh, she was intrigued.

  Read on for more from

  Theresa Romain’s Matchmaker Trilogy

  To Charm a Naughty Countess

  Available now from

  Sourcebooks Casablanca

  One

  June 14, 1816

  Lancashire seat of the Duke of Wyverne

  “The money is gone, Your Grace.”

  Finally. After eleven years in Michael’s service, his steward had abandoned the vague diplomacy favored by the previous Duke of Wyverne. Michael’s father had been offended by bitter truths, preferring them sweetened into a palatable pap.

  Michael was never offended by the truth, especially not a truth so obvious.

  He wiped his pen and placed it next to the inkwell, almost hidden between ledgers and stacks of correspondence. “Of course the money’s gone, Sanders. I have more titles to my name than guineas this year. I must simply borrow more.”

  He sanded his just-completed letter to the engineer Richard Trevithick. Only a few years before, the man had overcome financial ruin to introduce steam-powered threshing in Cornwall. A brilliant innovator. Michael requested his opinion on whether steam power could be made useful in irrigation.

  This year, of all years, his dukedom needed as many brilliant and innovative opinions as Michael could lay hands on.

  Sanders cleared his throat, then hesitated. The familiar headache began to prod at Michael’s temples.

  “Yes?” His voice came out more sharply than he intended. Tidying a stack of papers on the battered leather surface of his desk, Michael ignored the steward’s gaze. Sanders’s sympathetic manner was a bit too personal, as though the older man knew about the headaches or the slipping control that brought them on.

  Another cough from Sanders. “The usual sources of credit have dried up, Your Grace.”

  Michael’s head jerked up. “Impossible. Has every bank in England run out of money?”

  As pallid as sand itself, Sanders’s only color came from gold bridgework he wore in place of three teeth lost during a youthful altercation. Now his face drained paler than usual, and he looked as pained as if he’d had another tooth knocked out.

  “England remains solvent, Your Grace, but… I regret that your financial overextension is now common knowledge. I have been unable to secure further credit on your behalf. In fact, it is likely that demands may be made for a repayment of your existing loans—ah, rather soon.”

  The headache clamped tight on his temples. Michael sat up straighter. “Dun me for payment, as if I’m a common cit? With whom do they think they are dealing?”

  Sanders drew a deep breath. “With a man who has no hope of paying his debts, Your Grace. I believe they have lost trust in your judgment, if you’ll forgive the frank speech.”

  Michael stared. “Yes, do continue.”

  “As long as the prosperity of the dukedom appeared inevitable, securing credit for your estate improvements was not a problem. But with the unusual climatic circumstances… that is to say, the weather has changed so much that… ah…” Sanders trailed off in a defensive flurry of careful language, his old habit of roundaboutation returning.

  “My improvement plans remain unchanged, despite the persistence of winter,” Michael said.

  The damned winter. Until this year, Michael trusted two things in the world: his own judgment and his land. But this year, spring had never come, and it seemed summer would also fail to make an appearance. For months, the world had lain under a chilly frost. And now Michael couldn’t trust the land, and no one else trusted his judgment.

  “Exactly, Your Grace. This is what they find worrisome. During an unusual year, there is less tolerance for…” Sanders shifted his feet on the threadbare carpet of Michael’s study. “Unusual behavior.”

  “This is an utterly unreasonable response,” Michael muttered. “When infinite credit is extended to fribbles with silk waistcoats and clocked stockings.”

  “Waistcoats and stockings require a smaller outlay on the part of a creditor than do speculative mechanical constructions, Your Grace.”

  Michael’s mouth twitched. “My speculative mechanical constructions, as you call them, will be the making of Lancashire.” Or should have been—would have been.

  He had planned so carefully, overseeing every detail himself to make sure it was perfect: plowing moorland into canals; researching steam power. And finally, finally, he had a chance of reclaiming land no one had ever thought would be useful.

  If his creditors were reasonable. Or if the world hadn’t frozen solid. Now there was nothing to irrigate; all the crops were dead. There was nothing with which to water them; the canals were troughs of icy mud.

  His signet ring weighed heavy on his finger; he rubbed at the worn gold band. “Well. Even if I am short of funds, Sanders, I will find a way to fix the situation.”

  “I can think of one possible way, Your Grace.” The steward hesitated.

  Michael’s eyes flicked to Sanders. “Judging from your overlong pause, I’m not going to like it. Do tell me at once.”

  “You could marry an heiress.” Sanders shaped the words as delicately as if he held glass beads between his precious gold teeth. “An alliance with a wealthy family would restore your creditors’ confidence, as well as providing the necessary infusion of cash to restart work on the canals.” He paused. “Or even build those steam-powered pumps you are interested in, Your Grace.”

  “Bribery, Sanders?”

  The steward’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Good sense, Your Grace.”

  Michael leaned back in his chair and allowed his eyes to fall closed. Mentally, he pressed the headache into a ball and threw it to the side of his awareness. What was left?

  The facts. The money was gone, and if Sanders were right, no more would be coming. Crops were scarce this year. There was barely anything to feed the tenants, much less their livestock or his own sprawling herds of sheep. The duchy was dying.

  Sanders made a fair point; credit depended on appearances. Social power depended on appearances. If a man could maintain the appearance of wealth and power, it didn’t matter if he had two sous to rub together.

  Michael had little use for false appearances, but the polite world had little use for this eccentricity—so they had avoided one another f
or the past eleven years.

  But if Michael’s goal was to save the dukedom, he must get more money. And one day, he must get an heir. The steward’s suggestion was perfectly logical: a wife would be simply the latest of Wyverne’s improvements.

  “Very well. I shall marry.” Michael opened his eyes, and the headache roared back into his consciousness. Over its pounding, he said, “Shall we convene a house party, then?”

  Now Sanders looked as if the glass beads had been shoved up his posterior. “I regret that that is impossible, Your Grace. I have, as you know, kept in contact with your London household over the years, and I hesitate to inform you that they have come into the possession of certain articles of interest regarding—”

  Michael held up a hand. “Speak plainly, if you please.”

  The steward’s gaze darted away. “The ton thinks you’re mad, Your Grace. It’s a frequent source of amusement in the scandal rags.”

  “Is it? After all the time I’ve been away, they still talk about me. How fascinating I am.”

  A good reply. Such words sounded carefree, belying the headache that now clanged with brutal force, or the queasy pitch of his stomach. Michael could ignore these distractions, could do and say what was needed. But that word, mad—he had heard it so often that he had come to hate it.

  He had never known he was mad as a boy—never, until he was sent off to school. If there had been nothing to do but study, he would have excelled, but the close quarters, the games, the initiations others handled so easily had turned Michael ill and shaking. Always scrambling for solitude, he was eventually sent home. A sin for which his father had never forgiven him; a type of son his father had never accepted. But hard-won solitude had been Michael’s, save for a brief interlude in London more than a decade before.

  A wholly unsuccessful interlude that revived whispers about the old duke’s mad son. Michael had hoped these whispers were silenced after so many years. But no: if the polite world was again questioning his sanity, that was undoubtedly why no more credit was forthcoming. Anyone would loan to a genius, but no one would risk a farthing on the schemes of a madman.