A Midsummer Bride

by Amanda Forester

  Thornton smiled. “Aye, I suppose ye have the right of it. If she knew we had racehorses in our stables, she would either sell them or use them as collateral for something. Either way, they would be lost to me.”

  “So you made the stables in your castle.”

  “Aye, ’tis generally not difficult to keep her from here, since she enjoys Town living most o’ the time. But with the house party here, it makes things a wee more difficult.”

  “How long do you think you can hide it from her?”

  “I am in the middle of several sales, sales that could change everything. At least I hope so. I am meeting with my steward today to go over exact numbers and my mother’s latest embarrassments. Once those are completed…” He paused and looked once more over the blue-green loch.

  “You still won’t tell her.”

  Thornton turned toward her, his eyebrows raised. “Aye, ye have the right of it again. Not because of the financial reasons, but because these horses have become more valuable to me than their price tag. I want them to have a happy life. I do not wish to see them sold to someone I do not know.”

  “But can’t you rein in your mother? How can she be so irresponsible? Forgive me, I know I speak of things I should not.”

  “Most of the money is hers. She is the daughter of a wealthy merchant with aspirations. My father married her purely for the money, I fear. Her father was aware of this and made several rather ironclad provisions regarding her dowry. Except for a large sum to pay for my father’s embarrassments, and a small monthly allowance, her money remained hers. Between the two of us, she has decidedly more income than I. Unfortunately, she runs through it much faster.”

  “That must put you in an awkward position.”

  “Aye, it does.”

  “I wonder why your father would agree to such terms.”

  “He was in a vast amount of debt at the time. He made the decision he did to save the estate. However, it was not long after his wedding that he regretted his decision.” Thornton stood and leaned against a tall boulder. “Before he passed, he impressed upon me the importance o’ never marrying for material concerns.”

  “And now your mother wishes you to do just the same as your father did.”

  “Aye. But in that she will be disappointed. I plan to wed a lass wi’out fortune at all.”

  “I see.” It was Harriet’s turn to look out over the blue waters. She supposed it was his way of reducing any chance she might have pictured him in a matrimonial light. He was a friend, and one she was lucky to have. She should not be ungrateful. Or disappointed. But she was. Nothing could acquit her of the sin of being desperately rich.

  They were quiet a moment, watching the birds circle over the loch, changing direction at once like some aerial display for their benefit. It was indeed a beautiful day, but Harriet was still chewing on Thornton’s words.

  “Do you have someone picked out?” she asked.

  “I beg yer pardon?”

  “Do you have your penniless lass chosen yet, the one you will wed?”

  “Nay, nay.” Thornton shook his head and leaned away from her, as if the mere thought of marriage might prove contagious.

  “You ought to,” declared Harriet. “You encouraged me to find a marriage partner to avoid fortune hunters, now I will give you the same advice. You should pick a wife as soon as may be. That way your mother will stop pestering you with wealthy marriage partners.”

  “Wealthy and well placed in society,” Thornton amended. “She has never forgotten her birth, nor have many of society ever forgiven her for being the rich daughter of a merchant. She wishes to raise her position in society through my marriage to the daughter of a well-respected family.”

  An unhappy vision of Miss Crawley floated through her head. “Even more reason to find the lady of your dreams soon.”

  Thornton shrugged. “Ye may have a point. My mother will not stop until she sees me wed.”

  “So you should be wed with all haste.”

  “I canna deny yer logic, Miss Redgrave, but I fear marrying to avoid my mother’s interference may be an even worse motivation than marrying for money.”

  Harriet laughed. “I suppose. I was only trying to help. Would that I could make myself as poor as a church mouse, I would wed you before dinner to save you the trouble of having to dance with another round of rich debutantes.”

  Thornton joined her laughter. “If ye ever cared to lose yer fortune, my mother can help in this regard. I would hate to wish poverty on anyone, but if ye could manage it, I would be most grateful.”

  “I shall turn my fortune over to her hands when I see her for tea.”

  “Then you shall be impoverished and we shall be wed by supper.” He smiled and walked over to where she sat. She leaned closer.

  “Greetings, my soon to be husband of convenience.” Harriet respectfully bobbed her head. “I think we shall start a new convention of people who wed not for financial concerns but to avoid an awkward conversation.”

  “Aye, I should be glad to start the trend with ye.”

  “To a long future of leading society.” Harriet held out her hand.

  “Ah, but I can do one better.” He took her offered hand and pulled her closer to kiss her cheek. He kissed her left cheek then turned to kiss the other, but Harriet mistook the gesture and turned her face so that their lips met. And stayed together. One second. Two. Three.

  He pulled away. “I apologize.” His eyes were wide, his lips parted. It was not so much a kiss as an accident. One she hoped to repeat in the near future.

  “My fault entirely,” said Harriet, looking down. “I am graceless as always.”

  “Nay, this is my fault.” He reached for her, his eyes fierce with desire. She slid off the rock toward him, landing in his arms. He held her tight and their lips met, not just warm but searing hot. She feared she would burn yet pressed closer. Though she had only known him a short time, she felt she had been waiting her whole life for this moment.

  He broke the kiss and bowed his head, touching his forehead to hers. He was breathing hard, as was she.

  “Forgive me. I should no’ have…” He turned and stepped away toward the blue loch. The magic of the moment was gone.

  With a slice of fatal awareness, she realized she would give it all, her fortune, everything, to be with this man. The realization flooded her with fear. What of her parents? She needed to return home. How could she be so careless as to lose her heart to a Highlander?

  “We should get back to the house.” Thornton spoke without looking at her. His formal, taciturn style had returned. “I would ask that ye keep what ye learned today to yer own counsel.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Harriet. “You can trust me.” And she meant it.

  “I know. ’Tis why I showed ye.” And he meant it.

  When Harriet returned to the manor house, Penelope and the Duchess of Marchford were waiting for her. They wished her to meet someone.

  The Duc d’Argon.

  Twenty-four

  “What the Duc d’Argon lacks in appearance he more than makes up for in charm,” Penelope commented to the dowager. Penelope pulled a shawl around her shoulders as they descended to tea, ignoring the exasperated look from the duchess, who did not appreciate the shawls that covered Penelope’s new wardrobe.

  “For fifty thousand pounds, he has a great deal of inducement to be charming,” replied the dowager. “Now let’s see if we can guide this romance along its proper course.”

  “I should hope he would not marry her only for the money.”

  “You have met our dear Miss Redgrave. I should be happy if anyone should wish to wed her for any reason.”

  “Not anyone,” reminded Penelope. “He must have a title after all.”

  “Naturally.” The duchess glided regally down the stairs for tea.

  Penelope had meant it as sarcasm, a sentiment utterly lost on the more pecuniarily minded duchess. The Duc d’Argon was a recent entry into the marriage mart gam
es at this house party and was welcomed by many in the tearoom with some interest. He was in possession of a medium build, which was dressed to perfection.

  Penelope may not have esteemed fashion, but she knew quality when she saw it, and the duc certainly was in possession of an enviable tailor. The cut of his coat and the gleam of his boots were underscored by his own personal polish, which outshone every man in the room.

  In truth, the duc’s visage was hardly notable, with a long, hooked nose and a weak chin. On him, however, he made it appear rather regal. He was quick to notice those of importance and made conversation with those most notable in the room, including the comtesse, whom he complimented profusely in French. If Penelope’s ears did not fail her, he criticized others in the room with such wicked humor that he made the comtesse laugh out loud, a rare occurrence in itself.

  Penelope took a cup of tea to the dowager, where she sat watching the events from one corner of the room. “But how can we have any assurance he would take an interest in Harriet?” asked Penelope in a quiet voice.

  “He is a refugee in England, living off of the kindness of English nobles who feel some affinity for French aristocracy displaced by the Revolution. He has not a farthing to call his own, however, and more than anything, he is in need of a rich wife.”

  The duchess lowered her voice even further. “And I have it from Leclair that he arrived traveling post without a valet of his own and had to be assigned one of the footmen. Marchford also had to settle his bill with the grocer to whom the duc had promised to pay a crown for a ride to Thornton Hall. His debts are extensive and pressing. If he cannot raise funds soon, he must return to the continent. And that, for him, would prove fatal.”

  “I do see your point, but why should Harriet be inclined to wed?”

  “He is a French duke. He has all the charm and polish she lacks. I would see it as an advantageous match on both counts. Now all I have to do is plant the seed.”

  “Please tell me you are not going to tell him her worth.”

  “As you wish, my dear.” Antonia rose from her chair, smoothed her perfectly coiffed white hair, and glided over to the duc, who was standing among a throng of admirers. Penelope had no doubt he would soon be in possession of a certain number. Fifty thousand pounds. The amount any man willing to wed Miss Redgrave would instantly take into possession. It was enough to turn the head of even the bluest of bloods.

  From the smile that lit his face, she could already see his head turn.

  ***

  “May I present the Duc d’Argon?”

  Harriet curtsied and came up slowly with a half smile, the one she was trying to perfect—pleasant but not overly encouraging. She glanced at Penelope, who gave her a supportive nod.

  “Miss Redgrave, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you.” The duc spoke with a French accent that made even his most banal words sound seductive.

  “Yes, it is a pleasure, Your Grace.” Harriet glanced at Penelope again and had a strong suspicion that matchmaking motivations were at play. If there was to be any matchmaking, she was more inclined to an earl than a duke. What she wished to do now was to have some time to think about what had happened between herself and Thornton.

  “I understand you have recently arrived from America,” continued the duc. “I should very much like to hear of it.”

  “Truly?” Harriet was surprised. Most of those she had met treated her American birth as something needing to be hushed up.

  “I should think you would be getting many of the requests to talk of your homeland.”

  “No, not at all. I believe most people think it an embarrassment for me.”

  “Ah, but we French, we look at it with the different eye, no? We helped with your defeat of the British.”

  “Yes. And were quite instrumental in that regard, or so my father tells me,” agreed Harriet.

  “I should like very much to hear more of this.” He smiled at her and she smiled in return. Perhaps he was only charming her to get her money, but he did it better than most.

  “Perhaps tonight we can talk. I should like to hear of France and the terrible things that have happened there of late,” said Harriet.

  “Ah yes, they are terrible indeed.” He paused, only for a moment, but the emotion still appeared raw.

  “I would not wish to bring up difficult memories,” Harriet hastily added.

  “Not at all, not at all.” The duc graced her with a pleasant smile. “Tonight we shall talk of our homelands and how we come to this. Until then.” The duc gently took her hand and kissed the back of it. Usually she found such affectations rather ostentatious, but he did it with such an air, she could only find him charming.

  ***

  “Ye’re sure o’ the numbers?” asked Thornton, desperate for something, anything to make what he was hearing somehow different. The amount they owed was shocking, their assets plundered. His plan to save the estate by selling racehorses now seemed futile in the face of such mounting debts.

  “I am certain,” said his steward with regret. “I have been over these numbers many times since I received this most recent contract from Lady Thornton.”

  “How is it that she entered into such an arrangement?”

  “It was entirely without my knowledge,” defended the steward. “I would never have—”

  Thornton held up his hands to stop the man. “I know ye woud’na have advised this.” Thornton sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I shall submit my resignation, my lord,” said the steward quietly.

  “No, no I dinna wish for that.”

  “Truth is, sir, ye dinna have the money to pay me. To be blunt, I hav’na been paid in over three months.”

  Thornton stared at him and swallowed convulsively. “How is that? I put the funds in the account myself.”

  “Lady Thornton hired an attorney to find the funds we had sequestered. Without my knowledge, the accounts were drained. At first I thought we had been robbed, but inquiries led to the realization that the money had gone into the account of General Crawley on the authorization of Lady Thornton.”

  “Ye were right in the first place. We were robbed.”

  Thornton rode home at a slow pace. What was he to do? Without a sudden influx of capital, he was in serious trouble. No longer was he simply going to lose Thornton Hall; he might be forced to flee to the continent.

  He did not know how General Crawley had manipulated his mother, but it was clear Crawley meant him to marry Priscilla. If Thornton was going to marry an heiress, it would not be Miss Crawley. The memory of Harriet’s lips on his returned to mind. He wanted more. It had taken everything he had to pull away.

  He had never met anyone like Harriet Redgrave. She was smart and honest and kind, and mysterious, and more than a little touched in the head. And her fifty thousand pounds would fix everything.

  Thornton pulled up so short his horse whinnied in complaint. What was he thinking? He had sworn he would never marry for money. Never! He must stay firm. If he married an heiress now, he would never know if he was attracted to her character or her money. Harriet deserved better than that.

  He dug in his heels and urged his mount to a gallop. He knew what he must do.

  ***

  Her face hurt from smiling too much. Or perhaps it was the falseness of the smile that hurt. She was trying, valiantly, to fit in, to not make a scene, to appear smaller and frailer than she was, and to not speak of anything of which she had actual knowledge. It was exhausting.

  After dinner, the ladies retreated to the drawing room where polite feminine arts and conversation were to ensue. Instead, at least to Harriet’s mind, the young women discussed the young men with as much a critical eye as one would choose a bonnet. The men were examined for their manner, their appearance, and their pocketbook. The mothers were no better, adding to the conversation such important facts as the man’s connections and the location and condition of his estate. Potential bridegrooms were evaluated on a variety of scores—na
mely appearance, rank, wealth, and whether their estates were advantageously situated.

  No one spoke of common interests or any real affection. The interests of these young women seemed fleeting, bestowed lavishly on one gentleman one day and then another gentleman the next. Foremost in the conversation was how to get the gentleman to propose: whether he would, when he would, and what could be done to increase the likelihood that he would.

  Of these conversations, Harriet had no part. She was tolerated only as a necessary evil. An American among them. Uncouth but rich. At times there was open discussion of whether one gentleman or another would be tempted to offer for Harriet’s hand due to his financial constraints. No one considered her prospects as anything other than a marriage of convenience, and these conversations occurred with only the poorest attempts to shield her from the embarrassment of overhearing.

  The dowager and Penelope were supportive once more, but they could not stand by her side at every moment, and so she was often forced to read a book in a corner while pretending not to hear anyone. Harriet was not sure if the ladies assigned a sentry, but there was always a call that the men were coming, so that inappropriate conversations could be stilled, books and needlework could be raised, and everything could appear proper when the men arrived.

  Harriet wished to run away to her room again, but she was not a coward. She was determined to stay a respectable amount of time in the drawing room. The cry came that the men were coming and Harriet tensed in response.

  This was the worst part of the evening, for Harriet was swarmed by men of all ages who flattered her without thought. They were the fortune hunters, of whom Penelope had warned her. The advice in this case was unnecessary. Harriet could see quite clearly their interest lay squarely in her bank account.

  One gentleman even had the audacity to compliment her “golden curls” when her auburn hair was pulled back into a simple knot. He had his eye on a beauty with flaxen ringlets across the room.

  Harriet gave him a painful smile and patted her hair. “Thank you, sir, I have often thought my blonde hair to be one of my great beauties.”