The Reluctant Heiress

by Evelyn Richardson

  “But, Rosalind,” her injured husband protested, “you know how Lady Willoughby was; she was an independent old Tartar. How was I to question her about such things?”

  “If you had asserted your authority in the proper way, this never would have happened, but you were afraid of her.” Rosalind shrugged gracefully and raised a slim white hand to her aching forehead.

  The accuracy of this statement was undeniable. Harold flushed a brilliant red and bit his lip before replying, “Well, we shall have to make the best of it. There is nothing to be done. Knowing Lady Willoughby, I am certain she was most thorough in seeing to the provisions in her will.”

  “No, Harold,” Rosalind contradicted him resolutely, “you will see to it that we are not made to suffer from such outrageous eccentricity on your grandmother’s part, even if she is dead.”

  “But how will I do that?”

  His wife draped herself in a more picturesque fashion across the back of the settee and gazed out the window at the vast expanse of neatly clipped lawn. “I am sure you will think of something,” she murmured languidly.

  Harold resumed his pacing, his brow knitted in agonized concentration. The Marquess of Cranleigh was not a clever man. He had succeeded as much as he had in his own little world mostly because he was the Marquess of Cranleigh and somewhat because he could be counted upon to carry out the tedious little details of schemes dreamed up by minds considerably brighter than his own. He was a loyal and dogged follower, slavishly devoted to the twin principles of pride and respectability—a quality that his wife and the leaders of his party exploited to the utmost. This was the most damnable and exasperating of situations, he fumed to himself as he followed the border of the carpet, executing a sharp turn as it made a corner. And the worst of it was that he could see no possible way out of it. Knowing Lady Willoughby, he was certain that she had tied it all up to a nicety and there was no possibility of altering it.

  Rosalind stole a glance at her husband, sighing gently. Harold was a fool, but he was her fool, and she was not about to allow him to give up a fortune without a fight. Summoning a smile to her lips, she regarded him with proper wifely fondness and laid a hand on his arm as he passed her. “Yes.” She nodded. “I can see that you are thinking the same thing I am thinking.” She nodded again approvingly.

  “Am I?” Occasionally, just occasionally, Harold had the uncomfortable feeling that his beautiful wife was a good deal brighter than he was. Of course she was as lovely as any woman he had ever seen, and such a witty and flirtatious conversationalist that the cleverest men in his particular set enjoyed talking to her. He was proud of that; however, the suspicion that she might possibly grasp more than he did of what was going on made him most uneasy. It was only the brief, uncomfortable thought of the moment, quickly dismissed as he looked down into the dark eyes so full of admiration and at the bewitching dimple that appeared as she smiled encouragingly at him.

  “Yes,” she continued. “It really is time Sarah was respectably married and, since she refuses to have a Season”— here Rosalind conveniently forgot her own notable lack of enthusiasm for having Sarah as a charge upon her in London—”it should be someone from here in the country.”

  “Richard,” Harold breathed as a sly look crept into his eyes.

  Rosalind mentally congratulated herself. Once again she had proven herself capable of leading the most obtuse of all men to a conclusion. “How clever of you, my love, the perfect solution!” A self-satisfied smile hovered on the beautifully sculpted lips. “I leave it to you to show him where his duty lies. After all, he and Sarah have been companions for so long he could hardly not offer for her. If he did not, it would appear after all this time as though he had been trifling with her affections.” And, she thought, it would be a good deal easier to push her recalcitrant brother into marriage with an heiress he knew than it had been during her previously unsuccessful attempts to throw her sporting, mad sibling in the way of those who graced fashionable ballrooms.

  Having once more done her utmost to extricate her husband from his own blind stupidity—he should have seen the need to be more conciliatory to the old bat while she was alive—Rosalind moved on to the next problem. “It really is too bad of Lady Willoughby to leave us before the Season is quite ended.” Rosalind pursed her lips in annoyance. “Black is my least becoming color, and I had quite planned a soiree and a musicale or two before we left town.” The sigh and look that accompanied this pronouncement were worthy of an early Christian martyr. “I daresay we shall just have to make the best of it by offering some sort of entertainment down here.”

  Harold looked up in some alarm. Pompous and overbearing he might be in his own little part of the world, but he was not confident enough of his position in the ton even to think of straying from the path of strictest propriety. But his wife was not about to be deprived of all the delights of London as well as her usual crowd of handsome admirers. “Nothing extravagant, mind you,” she cautioned. “It would be just a small party of a few select people. After all, we simply must do something for the Duke of Coltishall, who has done so much to introduce you to all the important members of the party. He will bring his charming daughter, and we simply cannot leave her without any young bucks to dance attendance on her. I believe that the Chevalier d’Evron is a great favorite, and I know we could count on Lord Farringdon to do the pretty. After all, Alistair is a good friend of Richard’s as well,” Rosalind continued smoothly, adding the names of her two most dashing admirers to the guest list.

  “Well...” Her husband still hesitated.

  “And I believe we could even persuade Lord Edgecumbe. He was most devoted to me this Season.” Rosalind threw in her trump card with a triumphant smile. Her husband had been trying unsuccessfully for years to attract the notice of this powerful politician; it had taken one dazzling smile from Rosalind and a few minutes of conversation with him at the Duchess of Coltishall’s rout to captivate him entirely. A brilliant man, Lord Edgecumbe had been forced by pecuniary circumstances to marry a dull but wealthy woman who was far more interested in her dogs and her horses than she was in her clever husband whom she encouraged to stay in London, preferring that a man so notably lacking in the skills requisite a country gentleman not embarrass her with his ineptitude on the hunting field. Scorned in his own home for his lack of wealth and athletic prowess, Lord Edgecumbe had been easily susceptible to the charms of a sympathetic female, especially one as lovely as the Marchioness of Cranleigh.

  Though not attracted to him in the least, for physically he was a most unprepossessing specimen, Rosalind had instantly recognized Lord Edgecumbe’s power and influence in political circles and immediately cultivated his acquaintance, adding him to her burgeoning circle of admirers. Her efforts had been swiftly rewarded as men who had hitherto ignored her husband stopped in to discuss the latest news from Parliament with him, and invitations soon flowed in from some of the ton’s most noted political hostesses.

  Harold beamed. “An excellent scheme, my dear. We may perhaps also convince his wife to visit. She detests London, but Cranleigh is sure to please her. I hear that she is enormously wealthy. Certainly she comes from one of the most ancient families in Buckinghamshire, and her brother, Lord Ware, is not without influence in Parliament.” Harold rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. “Yes, I feel that she could also be a powerful ally. I am sure you will captivate her as you have done her husband.”

  Rosalind had not the least notion of wasting her time or her considerable charm on a mere female, especially some rustic who had not the slightest influence in the fashionable world, but she did not want to say anything that could threaten her plans for filling the house with her own particular flirts. The more people she invited, the less obvious would be the presences of the Chevalier d’Evron and Alistair, Lord Farringdon, Earl of Burnleigh. Just the thought of Lord Farringdon’s athletic figure and the chevalier’s mesmerizing dark eyes caused her pulse to quicken.

  “I sha
ll do my best, my lord, but from what Lord Edgecumbe tells me, she is a rather quiet woman, unaccustomed to going about much. Perhaps she would feel more comfortable with Sarah.” There, let her sister-in-law earn her keep. After all, someone as bookish as Lady Sarah Melford had no use for gentlemen anyway, and as long as Rosalind was forced to endure the irritating presence of someone who had no use for the vast fortune she had just inherited, that person might as well be useful.

  “Good idea.” Harold nodded, “It will keep her from moping about the house.”

  “I shall tell her this instant so that she may be of some help,” his wife replied, rising gracefully, “and then I shall send out notes to the proper people.” Glad to have the prospective gaiety to occupy her mind, Rosalind glided off in search of her sister-in-law.

  Chapter Three

  The person in question was indeed moping, as her brother would call it. Sitting alone in her bedchamber, Sarah gazed unseeingly out her window across the vast expanse of lawn to the dark woods of the park beyond. What was she to do now? Her only friend in the world was gone, and it was all too clear that she was not particularly welcome in what had been her home. To be sure, she was not unaccustomed to loneliness, having spent so many years with no one but her governess to show any interest in her, but having enjoyed the companionship and stimulating company of her grandmother, she now found it harder to bear than it had been before Lady Willoughby had come to live at Cranleigh.

  Sarah shook her head. There was no use repining. She knew that eventually her own active mind and her natural interest in everything around her would reassert themselves and she would soon find herself almost as busy and occupied as she had been before. It was not like her to sit idle like this, but the shock of it all had taken her by surprise.

  There was a tap on the door, and her sister-in-law entered. “My goodness, Sarah,” Rosalind began brightly, “you cannot sit here forever looking so Friday-faced.” Seeing the sparkle of annoyance in the green eyes, she hastened to soften this apparent criticism. After all, it would never do to alienate Sarah just when she needed her. “I know how much Lady Willoughby meant to you, but she was by no means young, you know.” Rosalind did her best to adopt an expression of sympathetic commiseration before launching into her immediate concerns.

  You do not understand in the least and care even less, Sarah thought; however, she was not about to share a moment of her own private sorrow with her frivolous sister-in-law. “Yes, I suppose you are in the right of it.” She sighed, putting away all thoughts of Lady Willoughby, concentrating instead on her visitor. What did her sister-in-law want? Fully occupied with her own pleasures, Rosalind rarely had time even to notice Sarah, much less consider her well-being. There must be something that she hoped to gain by seeking Sarah out like this.

  Sarah studied the beautiful face in front of her for clues as to the meaning of the visit, but beyond a certain watchful expression in the lustrous dark eyes and a slight raising of the delicately arched brows, there was not the least hint as to what her sister-in-law was thinking.

  Rosalind observed Sarah with equal curiosity; however, beyond their mutual wary approach to one another, the similarities ended. The Marchioness of Cranleigh was the picture of fashionable beauty from her dress, which, although black figured silk, was trimmed in such a way as to reveal its Bond Street origins, to her elegant coiffure. She was a work of art right down to the tiniest detail. Gracefully disheveled dark curls clustered around a face that already had artists clamoring to paint it. She was the example of feminine loveliness to which every woman in the ton aspired.

  Sarah, on the other hand, though neatly enough attired in a plain high-waisted gown of black bombazine with her gold hair wound in simple coils around her head, possessed none of her sister-in-law’s éclat—quite the opposite, in fact. If one were to think about it, one might almost conclude that she exerted as much effort to remain unobtrusive as Rosalind did in seeking to capture the admiration of the male sex and the envy of the female. However, if the casual observer stopped to consider, he would see that Lady Sarah Melford, though less obviously beautiful than the Marchioness of Cranleigh, possessed a certain attraction all her own—a cool elegance conferred by classic features, a small straight nose, finely sculpted lips, and deep green eyes that revealed a lively intelligence. Her customary expression was one of thoughtfulness rather than flirtatiousness, and she was thus often ignored when surrounded by the more vivacious countenances of other females bent on attracting masculine attention. But anyone who paused a moment to contemplate her face would immediately be intrigued by its character and, upon closer examination, would be attracted by the personality so obviously present in its owner and so obviously lacking in the bland, undiscriminating expressions of those around her.

  It was Rosalind who broke the silence. “Sarah, I know this is difficult, but it is not at all ladylike to be so self-indulgent at a time like this. There is so much to be done, people coming to offer their condolences and...” The marchioness paused as she sought a delicate way to phrase the next sentence. “Besides, I shall need your help.” Sarah looked up in some surprise. Yes, that was the best way, Rosalind decided, one had to appeal to her for assistance. Sarah was ever eager to do good works, and the marchioness had never failed to win what she wanted when she adopted a helpless and cajoling tone.

  She sighed and collapsed gracefully into a chair. “Your brother feels he must remain here at Cranleigh for some time, but you know how important it is to be in London where his career is concerned. People are so fickle; the minute one is not around, one is forgotten.”

  And you should know that better than anyone, Sarah muttered to herself as she recalled the acquaintances that Rosalind had cultivated assiduously, even in such an out-of-the-way place as Kent, and then dropped when they were no longer of any use to her.

  “Therefore, if he cannot be in London, we must bring London to us,” her sister-in-law concluded brightly. Then, anticipating objections, she quickly added, “Of course, being in mourning, we shall keep it the most quiet of affairs, just a few close friends here for the country air.”

  For a moment Sarah’s air of gravity deserted her. Her lips twitched and a humorous glint dispelled the somber expression in her eyes. The vision of Rosalind, who considered it rusticating to be driven through Hyde Park at anything but the height of the fashionable hour, enjoying country air almost overset her. However, she ruthlessly suppressed the derisive chuckle that threatened to burst out, and nodded encouragingly.

  Sarah could never like her vain and selfish sister-in-law, but on the other hand, one could not help but be fascinated by the very boldness of her machinations, nor could one underestimate her determination. She had learned that lesson from watching Rosalind Tredington make herself Marchioness of Cranleigh.

  Sarah would never forget the day that Rosalind, hustled off at a tender age to a seminary in Bath by a father too wrapped up in his own amusements to care for a daughter, had come home. It had been a great shock to the entire neighborhood when the elegant creature had emerged from the traveling carriage.

  That particular day Sarah had been over at Tredington Hall, where she and Richard had set up a series of jumps and were engaged in challenging one another to ever more daring feats of horsemanship. She had barely recognized the young lady, dressed in the height of fashion, who alighted so daintily and greeted the assembled retainers with cool graciousness.

  Sarah had looked in vain for the awkward, whining creature who had never been able to keep up in any of the games they had devised. Even though Rosalind was the eldest of the three of them, she had not been able to run as fast, jump as high, or climb as well as Richard and Sarah, and she was so frightened of horses that riding was out of the question. Sarah, Richard, and the other children in the surrounding countryside had always scoffed at her as a poor, timid creature. Now Rosalind was about to have her revenge.

  Every man for miles around, from the squire to the stable boys was now besotted with
her, and they fell over themselves to offer her assistance of any sort. If her carriage pulled up in the village, there was a crowd around it, clambering to hold the horses, help her down, or carry her packages. Even the squire’s two sons, Tom and George, both thoroughgoing misogynists who had always avoided Rosalind at all costs, gave up their wild rides across the countryside attending this mill or that hunt in favor of lounging around her drawing room.

  Sarah had not been able to believe it. Yes, Rosalind had grown; the skinny body had developed curves, and she now laughed flirtatiously, batting long, dark lashes and making a great show of dimples and tiny white teeth when she smiled, but she was still the same old Rosalind—self-centered and slightly vain, interested in nothing but fashion and herself. However, no one but Sarah seemed to realize this, and suddenly the whining useless girl everyone had tried to avoid had become a most fascinating creature, sought out by one and all—women as well as men—for wherever the men were, all the women wished to be, and the men were all paying court to Rosalind.

  Suddenly, Sarah found herself feeling very much alone. With Rosalind returned, Tredington Hall became the hub of neighborhood activity. The Tredingtons had always been a wild and fun-loving crowd, up for anything, and Rosalind wheedled her father into giving one party after another, from Venetian breakfasts to masquerades, even a medieval tournament with Rosalind presiding as the dispenser of prizes. For respectability’s sake, Rosalind was always accompanied by a colorless, silent spinster, Aunt Honoria, actually a remote cousin plucked up from drudgery as governess to provide proper companionship for her beautiful young relative.

  At all these festivities Sarah found herself watching her former acquaintances make utter fools of themselves. Being lively, inquisitive, and adventurous herself, Sarah had always spent more time with Richard Tredington and his friends, preferring their company to that of their sisters, who did nothing but chatter endlessly of fashions and sigh over young men who were far more likely to spend time with a horse than with a girl. Now all of this was changed. Her companions who formerly rode all over the countryside in search of one lark after another were content to dance attendance at Tredington Park, doing nothing except admiring Rosalind and listening to her chatter.