by Sara Bennett
Sophy was his. She would always be his. They were meant to be and if he hadn’t known it already then he knew it now. Life without Sophy would be nothing more than a half-life, and he couldn’t begin to contemplate that. He would marry her and live at Pendleton Manor with her, and eventually be buried in the Baillieu family crypt by her side.
“Come on,” he said gently, and reached out to help her to her feet. Sophy’s hand was chilled and he squeezed it tight. They turned back toward the barn.
“I don’t think you should tell my father,” she said, looking at him anxiously. “Not because I care about your friend, Harry, but because …” She bit her lip, giving him another anxious look. “He might blame you and stop me from seeing you.”
“He should blame me. It was my fault.”
She chewed on her lip, watching him, and he realised she was seeking a way to absolve him.
He shook his head. “You can tell me I’m an idiot, Sophy. I deserve it.”
Her mouth kicked up in a faint smile, and then she shivered. He stopped and wrapped his arms around her.
“You’re right, though. If your father hears about tonight he’ll probably keep us apart. So I won’t tell him. Or my father, for that matter. But I’ll be damned if I let Digby ever forget this day.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, leaning on his arm as they continued on. Her feet were probably numb with cold by now and her gown wasn’t warm enough.
Harry swung her up into his arms and she cuddled close to his chest, pressing her face to his heart. Her hair had come loose and spilled over his arm and he could feel the soft curve of her breasts, but for once he didn’t think of his need for her body. He was still too shaken from what had nearly happened.
They walked in silence until they were nearly at the barn, and he then set her gently down. He wouldn’t have cared who saw them together, he wanted others to know she was his, but he was aware of his father’s determination that he marry well, which meant a wealthy woman preferably with a title. Harry had no intention of abiding by his father’s wishes, but he was still too young to openly defy him, and it would take time for his father to get used to the idea that Harry had every intention of marrying their estate manager’s daughter.
Some of the children were having a snowball fight, shrieking and running.
“Go inside,” he said, bending his head and kissing Sophy’s nose. “Say you were playing with the children if they ask.”
She looked down at herself with a grimace and nodded, and then looked at him nervously, hesitant to say what was in her head.
“What is it?”
“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked.
“And the day after that. I’m not going back to school. That’s over.”
She smiled, and this time when she gazed up into his eyes hers were full of love.
Inside Pendleton, Adam was seated on the staircase and gave him a wary smile. “Where have you been? Father’s been asking for you.”
Harry frowned. “Has he gone to bed?”
“He’s in the library. Maybe he’s asleep in there.”
Harry considered carrying on up the stairs to his own bed but he knew that waiting until morning would only make things worse. Whatever his father wanted it was best to get it over with if he could.
Sir Arbuthnot was slumped in his favourite chair, a tumbler of brandy in his hand. He stared at his son through narrowed eyes, his cheeks flushed, his mouth a hard white line.
“Sit down,” he growled.
“Father, what do—?”
“Sit. Down.”
Harry came to the chair in front of his father’s and sat. For a moment Sir Arbuthnot contemplated him in silence. Harry tried not to fidget, reminding himself he was near enough to a grown man.
“You know the Baillieus have always married into money. That’s how we keep Pendleton from falling out of our hands. We’ve had our share of gamblers and wasters, but the money has always balanced that out.”
Harry said nothing, waiting. His heartbeat had quickened. He tried not to clench the arms of the chair. He didn’t want to give away anything, but he had a feeling he knew what his father was about to say.
“You have to marry an heiress, Harry.” Sir Arbuthnot leaned forward, setting his glass down hard on the side table. “I have a number of girls in mind, but I wanted to wait until you were home for good. We can arrange a stay in London with your uncle, add a bit of polish, but after that I want you married and home. Here. At the manor. I’m not getting any younger.”
Harry waited a moment. The words in his head were trying desperately to get out but he held them in, knowing they would only make things worse. He was never going to marry anyone but Sophy but his father wasn’t ready to hear that.
Instead he said, “You didn’t marry until you were forty.”
Sir Arbuthnot snorted. “So you think you can do the same? Well it’s not going to happen, Harry. We need new money to keep the estate running. A few bad seasons, the war …” He shrugged. “Financially things have been tight. I don’t want to borrow to keep Pendleton running but I might have to, and once the banks have their greedy hands on us, there’s no knowing where it will end.”
“There are modernisations you can make. I read about a system of planting that—”
His voice trailed off under his father’s glare. Sir Arbuthnot was never going to change the way they did things. For him tradition was everything—if it was good enough for his father and his father before him, then why change? Harry was caught in a trap and it was tightening its grip on him, making it hard to breathe.
“I need time.”
“For what?” His father’s eyes narrowed. “I know about Sophy Harcourt. I’ve seen you mooning over her and her father has noticed it as well. He has plans for her.” He shrugged. “Frankly it doesn’t bother me if you have her on the side. She’s pretty, I’ve noticed her myself, but a girl like that doesn’t expect more than a roll in the hay. Keep her as long as you like, she’ll be grateful for the crumbs you give her before she moves on to the next man, but she isn’t going to be your wife, Harry. You might as well accept it now.”
A girl like that.
The way he spoke of Sophy made Harry hot with rage. He wanted to argue. He wanted to storm out of the room. But he was nineteen years old, and he would not come into his maturity for two more years. Could he evade his father’s wishes that long? Somehow he would have to.
Harry closed the door behind him. Adam was still sitting on the staircase. The brothers looked at each other, and for once they read each other perfectly.
“Did he tell you it’s up to you to keep the place intact?” Adam asked. “Sophy or Pendleton, eh? What a choice to make. Glad I wasn’t the first born.”
Harry’s eyes were bright with anger, hands clenched at his sides. “I’m not giving her up, Adam. I’m not.”
Adam nodded. “Good for you,” he said, but there was something in his face that made Harry’s confidence waver. As if Adam knew that he was just fooling himself.
Chapter 7
SOPHY
1809, Pendleton Manor, Oxfordshire, England
“Did he really agree?”
Sophy glanced up from her book, surprised by the note of excitement in her aunt’s voice. She was halfway up the old pear tree, which was overgrown and long past bearing fruit, sheltered by the new spring growth. George and Anna were in the orchard, and they had been strolling together, heads close in conversation, but now they had stopped by the trunk of her tree.
“Sir Arbuthnot thinks he is more intelligent than me because he inherited a baronetcy,” her father said, and the scorn in his voice was clear. “In truth he is a lazy man who seeks the easy way to solve a problem. I have offered him a solution and he has taken it. Of course he agreed!”
Aunt Anna was paying them another of her frequent visits. This time there had been talk of Arnold accompanying her, but some other matter had cropped up to prevent him. Sophy was relieved. Her suspicions
that her father and her aunt were match making were growing by the day.
“That is wonderful news, George! I must tell Arnold at once. He will be so pleased. And how pleasing for Sophy, too. You know Harry Baillieu would never have married her. Young girls are ruled by their emotions a great deal too much—they need older heads to watch over them. Oh, everything has turned out perfectly, just as I told you it would.”
Sophy’s mouth opened but she held in the gasp trying to escape. Perhaps she was too shocked to gasp. She closed her book sharply but luckily her fingers prevented it from making a sound, caught as they were between the pages. The book was from Harry’s library, one she had smuggled out when she was there to dine with her father and one of Sir Arbuthnot’s neighbours. Sometimes, when her father was present at visits with neighbours, Sir Arbuthnot made a point of asking that Sophy be there too. Her father said Harry’s father liked her at his table because she was pretty and distracting enough to keep his guests from noticing the less than favourable deals he often talked them into. He had acquired several fine horses in such a way.
Sophy wished she could tell Harry about that. She thought he might be amused. Then again he might be irritated. Since Digby had come to Pendleton for Christmas, she had felt a distance grow between her and Harry, and she worried that it was her fault.
The conversation in the orchard was giving her more to worry about. What was this about Sir Arbuthnot loaning money to her father so that he could buy back his family’s lands? Harry’s father would never do such a thing … unless it was to his benefit. And as for her father and Aunt Anna, Sophy thought she already knew what they were hoping to achieve.
“When will you and Sophy come home to Devon?” Anna said.
“Not immediately,” her father replied. “Sir Arbuthnot says he needs me for a time yet, until he is ready for Harry to take over. I will have to stay but that does not mean Sophy must. Now she is eighteen she is of an age to marry. Do you think Arnold will agree to take her with Audley Farm as dowry?”
Sophy couldn’t have moved now even if she wanted to.
“How can he not?” her aunt said. “This is the best of outcomes, George. For us all.”
Her father made a sound between a laugh and a groan. “I’m not sure Sophy will think so.”
“Your daughter will do as you tell her,” her aunt said quickly, sensing his distress. “When she knows the lengths you have gone to, to protect her and ensure her happiness, she will be grateful, George.”
“I hope you are right but Sophy has a mind of her own. And I worry that Sir Arbuthnot will not let me go without argument. He believes that by lending his money to me he will rid himself of my daughter but keep me here, under his thumb. We are of the same generation, he and I, and do not trust these modern farming methods. Harry is an entirely different prospect.”
Her aunt gave him a thoughtful look. “Surely whatever his failings Sir Arbuthnot is a gentleman and his word is to be trusted?”
“I have no choice but to trust him.” Her father sounded determined.
“When should I tell Arnold and Sophy?” Anna’s voice trembled with excitement. “Such a perfect solution, George. I will start planning the wedding. And grandchildren! I can hardly wait.”
A moment later they moved on, their voices fading, but Sophy had heard more than enough. She felt sick. Her father had taken money from Sir Arbuthnot to buy back Audley Farm, to see her and Arnold—whom she barely remembered—settled there. How long did she have before their plans reached a point of no return?
She took a breath, and then another.
She needed to tell Harry. She chewed on her lip. Harry was in London, staying with his uncle, and even if she could send a letter to him, what could he do?
Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to marry this cousin she hardly knew and she was already sure could never love. She loved Harry and this wasn’t the future she had dreamed of. Should she climb down out of the tree and run after them? But she already guessed what their response would be—they knew best and her dreams of a marriage with the heir to Pendleton was impossible, no matter what promises he might have made her. Sir Arbuthnot would never allow it and now Sophy’s father had joined ranks with him.
Her father had said he was to remain at Pendleton as estate manager for now. Sophy must make certain to remain with him. Any mention of Audley Farm or Arnold must be diverted. She could insist that the children at the academy could not do without her. If necessary she would ask for Harry’s support, but she suspected he would be as powerless as she. For the first time in her life Sophy looked into a future she did not want and feared she would be helpless to prevent.
HARRY
Harry was home at last. Just as the Season in London was beginning to ramp up, he was called back to Pendleton Manor by his father. He was sorry to say goodbye to Lord Langley, who had been helping him gain ‘some town polish’, just as Sir Arbuthnot had instructed.
Lord Langley was Harry’s mother’s elder brother. Although not exactly an extroverted person, his uncle had done his best for Harry, though that more often than not entailed quietly seeing the sights rather than attending any social engagements.
It was only when his uncle had taken him to a brothel masquerading as a gentleman’s club, and had been shown into a private room, that he fully understood Sir Arbuthnot’s purpose—to make his eldest son in his own image.
Lord Langley had cleared his throat and fiddled with his neckcloth. “Uhm. Your father decided you needed a little more … experience, Harry. He has arranged for you to learn the niceties of the bedchamber as well as the ballroom.”
“He arranged for me to spend the night with a whore?” Harry had asked bluntly, staring, not sure whether to laugh or turn and walk out.
In the end they had both walked out. The woman was beautiful and charming in her own direct way, but she knew more about his father than he cared to hear, and he was quick to refuse her services. This was his father’s world, and Harry looked toward a very different future.
As they made their way to a boxing match—much more their sort of thing—he had found himself asking Lord Langley about his parents. His uncle’s answer was far blunter than he’d expected. “Your father was never a faithful husband. He has a lustful side he has never tried to rein in. My sister was there primarily to give him a legal heir, and she knew it.”
Harry felt nauseated. He already knew he didn’t want that sort of life for himself. He wasn’t Sir Arbuthnot and Sophy wasn’t his mother—but he vowed at that moment that he would never hurt her by taking a mistress. Instead, he would put all of his efforts into being a better man.
But Lord Langley wasn’t finished with his confidences. “Your father has made it very plain the sort of wife he wants for you. ‘One with breeding and money,’ was how he put it, ‘because that is how one produces the best livestock.’”
Harry snorted. “So I am to be put to stud like one of his bulls?”
His uncle had given him a bland look. “More or less.”
“I’m not going to let him tell me who to marry,” Harry had said heatedly.
His uncle had eyed him with sympathy. Harry wanted to talk about Sophy but stopped himself. Lord Langley did not like Sir Arbuthnot, that was obvious, but it didn’t mean he would not think it his duty to repeat anything Harry told him.
Now he was home again at Pendleton, and the joy in his heart was almost too much to contain. At twenty years of age he was more than ready to take over the running of the estate in whatever manner his father required of him. They would clash, he was sure of it, but in time he would implement his own progressive ideas. He could be patient, he had to be patient.
Adam was home as well. He’d taken up his commission with his regiment and was usually stationed at the barracks in London, although he seemed to have plenty of time to go out on the town and enjoy himself. Harry had missed his brother, and was glad to see him.
Sir Arbuthnot had invited guests to Pendleton, and they
arrived a week after Harry’s return. This wasn’t a coincidence, according to Adam.
“You know what he’s up to,” Adam said, as they made their way to the dining room. “He sees you marrying the girl.”
The widowed Earl of Streatham had a seventeen year old daughter, Lady Felicia, who was also his heir.
“Then he’ll be disappointed,” Harry said calmly. “Just as he was disappointed when I didn’t avail myself of the women at that club he sent me to.”
Adam’s eyebrows rose. “You went to the Masque, and you said no?”
Harry stopped in his tracks. “You’ve been there?”
Adam smirked. “I may be a second son but our father is generous in his desire to educate us both in the pleasures of the flesh.”
“Or justify his own behaviour by moulding us in his image.”
“More than happy to be moulded in his image, brother!”
Harry wasn’t sure why he should be surprised—his brother had always been a rakehell.
“She was a bit old, but I learned a thing or two,” Adam replied with a swagger.
Harry snorted. “As long as you didn’t take away more than some new tricks.”
“I covered up, brother. Always do.”
There was no time for further conversation. When they walked into the dining room, Harry found himself seated next to Lady Felicia, and did his best to ignore Adam’s knowing look from the other side of the oak table.
How had his father managed to snare the interest of an earl? And a rich one at that, he guessed by the man’s attire and demeanour—that was something his stint in London had taught him, how to appraise a man and accurately guess his yearly income based on his looks alone. But he also knew Sir Arbuthnot was not interested in peers without money.
The girl was attractive, with dark glossy hair and green eyes that slanted upwards, rather like a cat. Her manner with her father and Sir Arbuthnot conveyed that she was sweet and biddable, but something about the glitter in her eyes had Harry wonder if that was entirely the case. All the same, he imagined she would do as well as any woman for his wife, and not many young gentlemen had the opportunity to find a wife with looks as well as money.
