The Reluctant Heiress

by Evelyn Richardson

  Disgusted though she was by this behavior, Sarah could not help being curious, and she had hung on the edge of these conversations in order to hear what Rosalind was saying that was so fascinating. Perhaps she had learned something after all at her select seminary. But Sarah was doomed to disappointment. After several hours of listening, she discovered that the conversation contained a good deal of gurgling laughter and revolved around only one subject—Rosalind Tredington.

  Completely baffled by this sudden transformation in her childhood companions, from lively young people to complete simpletons, Sarah had complained to her grandmother. Lady Willoughby had laid a comforting arm around her granddaughter’s shoulders and replied ruefully, “It is all rather silly, my dear, I know, but this is the way of the world. When men, young or old, see a beautiful woman, they behave like perfect idiots.”

  “But... but she is not even very nice,” Sarah had wailed tearfully, for Rosalind, quick to recognize that Sarah could not be won over by her coquettish airs had not been slow to hint, ever so delicately of course, that Lady Sarah Melford was rather eccentric in her tastes and therefore not someone whose companionship or opinion was of any importance. The others, slavishly following the lead of their goddess, and without second thoughts, had abandoned Sarah to her own devices.

  “I know.” Lady Willoughby had sighed sympathetically. “She does not have to be nice, but believe me, you would not truly wish to be friends with the sort of people who seek out her company. In time you will discover those who enjoy discussing more important things in life than the trivialities that dominate her conversation.”

  Her granddaughter had derived some consolation from this, for she considered her grandmother to be the wisest, most knowledgeable person in her world, but as time wore on, she began to give up hope that this state of affairs would ever come to an end.

  Apparently, people in London were no more discerning than those in Kent, for reports of Rosalind’s resounding success in taking the ton by storm had made their way back shortly after she had left for her first Season. It was not that Sarah aspired in the least to a place in the fashionable world, but it did seem unfair that someone as vapid as Rosalind should so quickly be hailed as an incomparable. There was some consolation, however—and Sarah was disgusted at herself for even thinking such petty thoughts—which was that all of Rosalind’s brilliant admirers had remained precisely that. No one had asked her to become his wife.

  With some difficulty Sarah had stilled a vulgar impulse to gloat when Rosalind, still single, had returned to Kent. Sarah’s amusement had been short-lived, however, when she discovered the next step in Rosalind’s campaign. She alone had been able to see how deliberately Rosalind had turned her ankle and stumbled as she emerged from church just in front of the Marquess of Cranleigh. Harold, rushing gallantly to her side, had been the recipient of such a warm, melting look that he had been startled out of his usual fog of complacent self-importance. If it had not meant that Rosalind would intrude on her life more than ever, Sarah would have been amused by it all, as Harold, utterly helpless in the face of such determination, had been played like a fish on a line. His sister, put off as she was by his unbounding conceit, even found it in her heart to feel sorry for him as she watched Rosalind gather every aspect of the marquess’s life into her own dainty hands, establishing complete control over him.

  “A few select guests—Lord Edgecumbe and his wife and daughters, the Duke and Duchess of Coltishall, the Chevalier d’Evron, the Earl of Burnleigh,” Rosalind’s voice broke into her sister-in-law’s reverie.

  “The Earl of Burnleigh?” Sarah exclaimed involuntarily.

  “Why, yes. He is a coming man in political circles and a friend of Richard’s. You may have even met him, for he has visited Richard at Tredington several times,” Rosalind replied with studied casualness.

  Yes, Sarah certainly did remember the Earl of Burnleigh. No one who had laid eyes on him was likely to forget the tall, athletic figure, the lean, aristocratic features, and gray eyes that surveyed the world with a cynical contempt for humanity and all its failings. Oh yes, Sarah remembered Alistair, Lord Farringdon, Earl of Burnleigh.

  Who could ignore or forget one of the most renowned rakes of the ton! Rumors of his conquests had even reached their quiet part of the world.

  It was only natural that someone of such libertine propensities should be a crony of Lord Tredington’s, for Richard, though not much in the petticoat line, was ripe for any other sort of mischief. In fact, Sarah recalled far more about the Earl of Burnleigh than she cared to. The most potent image she retained of him—one that simply would not go away—was of the earl and Rosalind the night of the masquerade ball at Tredington Park. Sarah, escaping the stuffiness of the ballroom and in search of fresh air, had gone for a walk in the gardens and had come across them, Rosalind and Lord Farringdon, locked in a passionate embrace on a secluded bench. They had been so involved that they had not the least thought of anyone or anything else while Sarah, transfixed by the scene, had stood for what seemed ages before making her escape unnoticed by the lovers.

  It had been shortly afterward that Rosalind and Harold had announced their engagement, and Sarah, who usually scorned love and romance as figments of silly girls’ imaginations, could not help asking herself how someone who had been wrapped in the arms of a man like Lord Farringdon could marry a man like Harold. She would have been astonished to know that Rosalind, in the few moments of unwelcome thought that would intrude in spite of her best efforts to ward them off with parties, flirtations, or the acquisition of the latest fashionable kickshaws, wondered very much the same thing.

  However, Rosalind had been given very little choice in the matter, for the Marquess of Cranleigh had been the only one to offer her his name, his ancient title, and an establishment of her own—not that Rosalind was the least grateful to him for it. Unfortunately, the very fact that Harold had been so quick to give her those things made him appear stupid and weak to the woman who had manipulated him so easily. No, Rosalind could not admire, could barely even like, such a man, but then men like the Earl of Burnleigh would never allow someone else to lead them as she had led Harold, and they certainly would never have offered marriage.

  “But Richard can see to it that Al... er, Lord Farringdon is sufficiently amused. I do need your assistance in seeing to Lord Edgecumbe’s daughters and to Lady Amelia who is rather shy despite being daughter to the Duke of Coltishall,” Rosalind continued, redoubling her appeal. “And, as I believe that Edgecumbe’s daughters are considered to be rather blue, I am persuaded you will know just what to say to them. I never have the least notion.” The marchioness shrugged helplessly as though rational discourse were as foreign to her as Arabic or Hebrew, Sarah thought.

  “I shall do my best,” Sarah replied listlessly. The idea of entertaining strangers at such a time was less than attractive, but at least these particular guests seemed to offer more of potential interest than most of Rosalind’s acquaintances did.

  “Good. I depend on you.” With a satisfied smile the marchioness, eager to put her plans for amusement into action, rose and hurried from the room, leaving her sister-in-law to her own speculations concerning the forthcoming festivities.

  Chapter Four

  The ensuing days involved a whirlwind of activity for the Marchioness of Cranleigh, but they were not so busy that they distracted her entirely from her plans for securing Lady Willoughby’s fortune for her own use. After all, festivities of the sort she was planning were not free, and Rosalind refused to be forced by a lack of sufficient funds into putting on paltry affairs. Consequently, Lord Richard Tredington was surprised to receive a visit from his sister less than a week after the reading of the will. It was not that Rosalind was not fond of his company—everyone enjoyed the company of such a gay blade as Richard—but she usually made him dance attendance on her at Cranleigh rather than exerting herself to make the trip to Tredington Park.

  “Hello, Roz, you’re looking very
dashing. What’s all this about?” Her brother greeted her jovially as Rosalind, noting that the cushions and carpets were even more frayed and faded than when she had left, draped herself across the least threadbare of the chairs in the drawing room.

  “Really, Richard, cannot a sister visit her brother without being subject to an inquisition?”

  “Yes, but not this particular sister and not this particular brother. You have some scheme cooking in that pretty head of yours, I’ll warrant, or you would not have come all the way over to see me. Tredington Park may be a dust heap, but it is private. You must have something to say to me that you don’t wish Melford to overhear.” Smiling quizzically at his sister, Richard threw himself into the chair opposite her.

  “Not Melford, Richard, Sarah.”

  “Sarah?” Richard was nonplussed. It was exceedingly rare that his sister concerned herself with the welfare of anyone besides the Marchioness of Cranleigh, much less that of her sister-in-law.

  “Yes, Sarah. She is most upset by her grandmother’s death. Harold and I do not know what is to become of her. She is such an odd little thing, you know—practically a recluse—and with Lady Willoughby gone she has no one for companionship.” Rosalind sighed and raised a hand to her brow. “Harold and I are at our wits’ end as to what to do with her.”

  “Do with her?” Richard looked amused rather than sympathetic. After years of living with his sister, he was inured to her theatrics. “Why should you do anything with her? I always found Sarah to be a capable little thing, well able to manage anything. Just you wait and see. This has knocked the wind out of her, but she’ll be all right and tight in no time.”

  Rosalind frowned. Really, Richard could be so provoking with his lackadaisical disregard for everything, and at the moment he was being particularly obtuse. “You don’t have the least sensibility, Richard. The poor thing is desperately lonely. She needs the comforting presence of an old friend. You could provide that comfort.”

  “I?” If Richard had been amused before, he was flabbergasted now by the role his sister was casting him in. As the adored son and the youngest child in a household bent on amusement. Lord Richard Tredington had never had to do anything even remotely uncomfortable. Playing comforter to a bereaved young woman, no matter how well he knew her, struck him as a distinctly unpleasant task, and he was not about to do it. “I have not the least knowledge as to how to help her; furthermore, I don’t have the least interest in doing so,” he admitted frankly.

  “Oh, but you must. She is so unnerved by the entire thing, heaven knows what she will do or what will happen to that enormous fortune she inherited,” Rosalind protested.

  “Ah.” Obtuse Richard might be, but he was not stupid, and he knew his devious sister’s mind well enough to catch the drift of this increasingly upsetting conversation. A darkling look settled over his handsome countenance. “I have known Sarah Melford for years, and I like her as well as I like any female, but I refuse to be leg-shackled to her,” he began in an ominous tone.

  Rosalind smiled up at her brother, coyly batting her eyelashes. “Leg-shackled? Who is forcing you to do such a thing? Richard, how can you—”

  “Think such a thing of you?” her brother finished her sentence for her. “Because I know you, Rosalind, and I tell you I won’t do it.”

  “Richard.” The sweetness vanished instantly as Rosalind fixed him with a stare that would have made a more intrepid man quake. “You will do this because I gave you the money that kept you out of debtors’ prison.” Seeing that this telling argument was not having the desired effect, she allowed her voice to quaver ever so slightly and tears to well up in her eyes. “Because I sacrificed myself to this loveless marriage so that you could keep our family home.”

  “Now, Rosalind, that is doing it much too brown. We both know you married Harold because he was the only one who came up to scratch, and it was to your advantage as well as mine.” Richard refused to fall victim to his sister’s wiles, but a note of uncertainty had crept into his voice. After all, his sister had looked out for him, in her own fashion, since they had been children. And it was true that the minute she had hooked the Marquess of Cranleigh, she had made him cough up the ready and enough of that to repay all Richard’s debts—for the time being.

  “Richard, think!” his sister pleaded. “You can’t remain single forever. You must carry on the Tredington name, and you have known Sarah for ages. What with her fortune you would never find yourself under the hatches again.”

  Her brother rubbed his nose thoughtfully. What Rosalind said was perfectly true. He knew he had to marry; it was just a question of when. Thus far he had managed to postpone this unhappy fate, but his debts had begun to cut significantly into the estate, and Tredington Park was beginning to look very much the worse for it.

  Richard was no fool. He knew that he was not a particularly eligible parti. After all, he had his sister’s example before him, and even with all her undeniable charms Rosalind, with no dowry and a debtor for a brother, had been unable to catch anyone but Harold. Certainly he liked Sarah well enough and was comfortable with her. She would not be forever pestering him to take her to London or even to escort her to local assemblies. She, who appreciated fine horseflesh as much as he, would not complain if he were to concentrate his energies on setting up a truly good stable, which was something he had always longed to do but had lacked the wherewithal to accomplish. Suddenly, his sister’s idea did not seem as farfetched as it had at the outset.

  Seeing that her brother was weakening. Rosalind was quick to press her advantage. “And if you were to marry Sarah, you would not have to spend a great deal of time in London, haunting balls and routs, trying to make yourself agreeable to a bevy of young misses who would expect you to flatter them and dance attendance on them from morning until night.”

  Richard shuddered.

  “Precisely.” His sister looked smug. She had felt certain that Richard would come around to her point of view if she presented it well enough. Now all that remained was to convince Sarah. Rosalind was far less sure of the outcome of that part of the plan. That, however, was Richard’s affair.

  Gathering up her gloves, Rosalind rose to go. “I know I can depend on you to set her mind at ease as to the future. After all, she must marry as well, and she has no more liking of balls and assemblies than you do.” Knowing her brother’s tendency to put off anything that demanded effort, she continued, “But you had better do it immediately while she is still feeling the death of her grandmother, else you might lose your chance to have a comfortable bride who will not demand assiduous attention in return for her fortune. Believe me, most heiresses are not so careless of their worth as Sarah.” And with that parting shot, the Marchioness of Cranleigh sailed majestically from the room, leaving her brother to stare blankly at her retreating figure.

  Richard remained rooted to the spot for some time, then, uttering a snort of disgust, poured out a generous glass of brandy and threw himself into a chair. He downed the brandy in one gulp and sat staring fixedly at the pattern in the carpet. It was not that he did not like Sarah; he was actually quite fond of her. It was just that he had a strong distaste for responsibility of any sort. But Richard knew his sister, and he knew that all peace was at an end until he did what she wished. Rosalind could make one’s life most uncomfortable if crossed, but she usually knew what she was about. Besides, Richard, as little as he was inclined to put forth the effort of thinking of someone else, felt sorry for his sister, leg-shackled to a stick like Harold. If he himself could improve her life by doing something that was to his advantage, well, then, he would do it.

  Thus it was that a good deal later in the afternoon, well fortified by numerous reviving drafts of brandy, that Richard rode over to Cranleigh. “Lady Sarah, please.” He peered owlishly at Nettlebed, the butler, who opened the door almost the moment he presented himself on the doorstep. Nettlebed had seen him ride up and, knowing Lord Tredington’s propensity for banging the knocker loudly an
d repeatedly, had hurried to forestall him.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Nettlebed murmured. “Lady Sarah will be down directly.” The butler led him into the library and, seeing that his lordship was already considerably castaway, refrained from offering any spiritous refreshments, sending word instead for a pot of strong tea to be served.

  “Hello, Richard.” There was a note of surprise in Sarah’s greeting. It was rare that Lord Tredington called on anyone, especially a lady. Ordinarily, if Richard wished to see Sarah, it was to ride with her, in which case he sent a note over, instructing her to meet him somewhere.

  For once in her life, Rosalind had accurately gauged someone else’s feelings, Richard thought. Sarah did look as though she were having a devil of a time, and she certainly did not look as though she had just come into a tremendous fortune. She was pale with fatigue as though she had been sleeping poorly. Her face was drawn, and there were shadows under her eyes, making them look enormous in her pale face. He felt a stab of pity for her that was almost strong enough to reconcile him completely to the unpleasant task at hand.

  Sarah eyed her visitor curiously. His calling on her was unusual enough, but he also appeared to be more than usually well to live. It must be important if he had had to fortify himself to the point of being foxed before calling on her. She was accustomed to the whiff of spirits on Richard’s breath, but generally he only imbibed to the point of gaiety. Now his movements were uncertain, and he appeared to have trouble focusing on her. She waited to hear the reason for his visit, but he continued to sit, staring at her, a bemused expression on his face. Finally, Sarah could bear the suspense no longer. “You wished to see me, Richard?”