To Wed an Heiress Read online

  The old man’s eyes opened wide with distress; Haro reflected that his distress would be considerably increased if he knew Miss Hastings’ further plans to rebuild the west wing of the manor house.

  “It is not at all the kind of attitude one might wish in the next Countess of Anglesford!” He paused and looked anxiously at his great-nephew, trying to see if he had gone too far and given offense. “Of course, I am sure that in other matters Miss Hastings is a very unexceptionable young lady and is possessed of many good qualities. Although, I must confess, I had thought you quite taken with someone else. Someone else altogether.”

  “I may have had a modicum of affection for another young lady in the past”—Haro shrank from mentioning Eda’s name, especially to one who knew them both so well—“but circumstances have altered that now.”

  The old man’s eyebrows lifted. Haro smiled grimly. Apparently none of the family had thought to inform Uncle Harold of the debacle that had overset the Emisons’ fortunes.

  Briefly, he outlined the gist of his late father’s financial imprudence and, with as much tact as possible, explained the importance of his new connection with the Hastings. “Miss Hastings is a very amiable and attractive young lady, and though she is perhaps a little too forthright with her own tastes, I fear that her father’s fortune more than makes up for the failing.”

  “So you’ve become a fortune hunter then, my boy,” said Uncle Harold, and Haro heard—or perhaps merely imagined—a hint of disappointment in his voice. But before Haro could excuse his own conduct, the old man’s voice broke into a cackle. “You silly gudgeon! Why did you not apply to me for the money? I’m rich enough, you know. I traveled the world in my day and brought back a chest of treasures from the East. Rubies, diamonds, gifts from Indian rajahs and the caliph of Baghdad. It’s enough to pay for Woldwick and more, and I’d sooner give it away now than save it for my funeral pyre.”

  Haro shifted uncomfortably on the couch. Throughout his boyhood, he had heard his great-uncle’s stories a hundred times, how he went to Russia and Cathay and back again, how he stole the Duke of Bavaria’s horses from out of his stables, how he nearly inveigled the Countess of St. Petersburg into running away with him. But whenever he had asked his parents, “Is it true what Uncle Harold says?” they had shaken their heads somberly.

  “He fought in the wars, you know,” Haro’s mother had said sympathetically, “and the poor man is a little touched in the head.”

  “He’s never had any blunt that I’ve caught sight of,” Haro’s father had said dubiously, “and he’s eaten at my expense ever since your grandfather died.”

  And so, thanks to his parents’ common sense, Haro had grown up knowing that his Uncle Harold’s stories were merely fairy tales and that the fabulous fortune he had amassed was the creation of a troubled mind. “You’re most generous, Uncle,” he said now, trying not to wound the old gentleman and exercising the same sensitivity that the other had shown earlier. “But I think your diamonds and rubies had better stay safe in your treasure chest. The betrothal to Miss Hastings is already settled. It’s entered the banns and I cannot beg off now.”

  He patted the old man kindly on the shoulder. “I’ll speak to her, however, about the woods and their wonders. She’s a stranger here, you know. Once she becomes more familiar with the place, I’m sure she’ll come to love it as we all do.”

  ***

  After Uncle Harold had taken his leave and Haro was finally able to settle into his bed, he found that sleep did not come as easily as he would have wished. He had spent the last couple days reconciling himself to his lot as the husband of Miss Hastings and was actually beginning to look forward to his nuptials with more anticipation than despair. But now, at the advent of the architect, he felt all his old anxieties return. How much did he really know about this slim, brown-eyed girl and her title-seeking father? Was this highhanded decision to remodel Woldwick a harbinger of what was to come now that the Hastings pair held the purse strings?

  All night, these concerns gnawed at him, forbidding him his rest, and in the morning he decided that—for his own sanity—he must have the matter out with Arabella. She might be the daughter of the wealthiest mill owner in England, but he was the Earl of Anglesford, and devil take him if he let some tradesman’s chit walk all over him. If he did not establish who was to be master of the house now, he might never have a chance to regain his authority.

  Yesterday’s sleet had turned to snow overnight and then stopped, leaving a soft layer of white on the ground. After the family had partaken of a large breakfast, Haro invited Arabella to drive out with him in the curricle. Changing into a warm pelisse trimmed with fur, Miss Hastings was soon ready for their outing. She seemed determined to make herself agreeable, perhaps in penitence for yesterday’s awkwardness. She complimented Haro on the ease with which he handled the reins and interested herself in every view of the countryside that he pointed out.

  Entranced by her smiles and flattered by her companionability, the earl could feel his resolution slipping away. But if he did not address the subject now, would he ever again have the courage?

  They had come to a narrow stretch of road running through a stand of leafless, white birches. He slowly reined in the horses, and the curricle came to a halt. “Arabella….”

  “What is it, my darling?” She pulled a warm hand out of her muff and placed it on his thigh. He could feel the heat of it through the fabric of his breeches.

  He swallowed convulsively. “This plan of yours, with the architect, and the west wing, and….”

  His eyes wandered from her face only to discover that her pelisse had been made by the best dressmaker in London, fitting so tightly over her chest that he could see every curve of her small bosom.

  “Oh, it’s just an idea is all,” cooed Arabella in conciliatory tones. She watched him breathlessly as he loosened the fingers of his driving gloves one by one then laid his bare hand over hers. “If you don’t like the plans Philippe draws up, we can call off the whole thing.”

  “Truly?” said Haro, leaning closer and feeling her breath warm against his face. She was so intoxicating that he failed to notice her use of the architect’s first name.

  “Truly,” she echoed, closing the distance just as capably herself. His lips found hers easily, and as his hands began discovering just how fine the fabric of her pelisse was, all of the anxieties of a sleepless night disappeared.

  The horses were forced to stamp irritably in the cold for a full quarter of an hour while the curricle’s passengers tarried in the road. But the shivering horses were not the only thing the Earl of Anglesford and Miss Hastings ignored. The couple were so intent on becoming better acquainted that they also failed to notice the moving shadow behind the shivering stand of birch trees.

  Only later, as they turned the curricle about to return to the house did they sight the far-away figure of someone leading a horse that appeared to be lame in one foot.

  ***

  From the window of the music room upstairs, Eda watched Haro and Arabella tumble out of the curricle in breathless excitement and walk hand in hand into the house while Jimmy, the groom, stepped up into the curricle’s seat and took it away to the stables. She walked to the staircase, looked down, and froze in place.

  Haro was assisting Arabella in removing her furs. He teasingly placed his cold hands on her red cheeks. Arabella giggled. Then Eda heard Haro call for Cook to send tea in to the morning room, and clinging to each other’s arms, they went away to warm themselves by the fire.

  Eda felt numb, and she had not even been the one to go out in the cold. But that feeling passed quickly and gave way to a rising tide of anger. Swallowing hard, she went into the music room and pulled out a particularly stormy piece by Beethoven. Her fingers thundered through the minor chords, unleashing the feelings inside of her on the keys of the pianoforte.

  “I say, you’re making it rather hard to read a book in peace!” said a friendly but irritated voice from the
doorway.

  Her hands dropped onto the keys with a discordant clang. “Sorry, Torin. You could always read downstairs?”

  “I tried…and almost cast up my accounts seeing those two lovebirds in the morning room. If they were sitting any closer to each other, she would be on his lap. I thought this whole affair was going to be a marriage of convenience, but Haro looks as smitten as that daft chap Romeo.”

  Eda, whose romantic relationship with Haro had always been more amicable than amorous, gritted her teeth. “What a cake he’s making of himself!” she muttered, and added a few other invectives, a credit to the Irish captain who had fathered her.

  All those months in London, he had never spent an afternoon mooning over her like this. They had been too busy—riding in Hyde Park, taking tea with one of the duchesses, or planning for some amusement at the opera—to make calf’s eyes at each other.

  Had he ever really been in love with her? Or had their relationship just been a comfortable state of affairs that he had resolved to formalize into matrimony?

  If he ever had resolved that. Lady Anglesford had intimated as much, but Haro had never declared himself outright.

  Less than a sennight had passed since Haro had thrown her over for another woman. At first, she had had the consolation that he had only done so for the sake of familial duty, but it seemed now that duty was not the only deciding factor.

  Eda stamped her foot. It was not to be borne. He must be punished for his desertion. She started down the stairs, only to see Lady Anglesford coming from the direction of the defiled morning room.

  “Oh, my dear! Would you care to drive into the village with me?” Lady Anglesford’s small hand clutched Eda’s arm and tried to turn her the other way. “Mr. Hastings is reading his newspaper in there—let’s not disturb him. Come back upstairs and we shall get our pelisses.”

  “No, thank you,” said Eda firmly, grateful to her aunt for trying to spare her from witnessing the painful scene—and from encountering Mr. Hastings—but also determined to stand her ground and execute some mischief.

  She peered out the window in the entrance hall and saw their French visitor coming back to the house from the stables. “I mean to sketch all this afternoon, and now that Monsieur Bayeux has returned with his drafting materials, perhaps we can keep each other company with our pencils?”

  Lady Anglesford sighed and slipped back into the morning room, doubtless out of concern to invest the situation with more propriety.

  Eda kept her eyes at the window and assaulted the architect as soon as he entered with a demand for company.

  “Oh, absolument!” said the Frenchman with a wan smile. His chiseled face had dark circles under the eyes, signs that he also had not slept well, perhaps due to an unfamiliar bed. He had been to the village and back that morning and had procured a great stock of paper, a straight edge, a triangle, and the requisite writing utensils.

  Judging from his reaction, Eda could tell that the man was not entirely keen on sharing a drawing table with her, but she refused to acknowledge the possibility of a rebuff. “The morning room has the best light,” she said—a fact that was not entirely a fabrication. “Let’s sit there and put our pencils to work.”

  As they entered the morning room, Eda had the satisfaction of startling both Haro and Arabella. Haro made a sudden movement to pull his hand away from Arabella’s, but her long fingers held on to his and would not be denied.

  Eda took Bayeux’s elbow and steered him over to the table by the window. “How I love to see a real architect draw! You’ve had the chance to survey the building and the grounds, and you must have such grand notions piling up in your head of how to renovate our dear old Woldwick.”

  “Yes, very grand,” echoed the architect unconvincingly. He reached into his bag of drafting materials and pulled out a square edge and a bit of India rubber and set them down tidily by the side of his paper. Eda smiled at him encouragingly. He picked up a piece of sharpened charcoal and began. Eda wrinkled her nose and set to work on a sketch of her own, glancing up every so often to consider the subject of her new portrait.

  10

  “I am sorry things are so dull today,” Lady Anglesford said to Mr. Hastings. The mill owner had taken up residence in a high-backed chair by the side of the great hearth, one that watched the door of the large morning room so that he could oversee the comings and goings of the rest while he perused his newspaper. “We have a few families nearby with whom we visit—Sir Robert Blount and his wife always dine with us at least once while we’re in the country, and their son Stephen is a friend of Haro’s—but with my husband’s death so recent, we will not have visitors calling.”

  Mr. Hastings dismissed her apology with a wave of the hand. “No matter, no matter. I’m sure we’ll have visitors enough once the nuptials are celebrated. The whole countryside will be coming around to gawk at the new Lady Anglesford. Won’t they, my dear?” He smiled benevolently at his daughter and rubbed a gleeful thumb over the fob of his too-large pocket watch.

  “Which reminds me, my boy,”—he turned to Haro—“we need to set a date for the happy day!”

  The scratching of pencils ceased entirely at the table over by the window. Both Eda and Philippe Bayeux had been working busily on their drawings for the last hour, and now, it seemed, they had come to a stopping place. Arabella sat up a little straighter on the sofa and brushed the back of her hand against Haro’s. Torin, who had wandered in to find his Vitruvius, stared openmouthed.

  “Oh, but it would be most improper to set a wedding date while we are still in blacks,” said Lady Anglesford, her mouth quivering.

  “Dashed right it would!” chimed in Torin, too annoyed to mind his language in mixed company.

  Mother and son looked earnestly at the heir of the house, expecting him to lend them support.

  Haro looked at Arabella’s soft brown hair and couched his words with care. “It’s not unheard of for a wedding to be held while a house is in mourning.”

  “Yes, I’m sure such things happen all the time…in Australia,” said Eda, “but things are a little different when one does not reside in a penal colony.”

  Haro glared toward the window and found Eda returning his glare measure for measure while Bayeux leaned forward in his chair at the other side of the drawing table.

  “I happen to know,” said Haro, “that the Marquis Vitalis was wed while his family was still in blacks, and I can’t be positive, but I seem to remember that Sir Henry Huntingdon was as well. And in any case”—Haro rose from the sofa and drew himself up to his full height—“I believe the date is for me and my intended’s family to settle.” He threw a conciliatory bone to his mother. “Though I would, of course, like to consider your wishes, Mama.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Lady Anglesford. “But perhaps it is best if you settle it with Arabella and her father and leave me out of it. I am feeling a little faint, and I think I will retire to my room.”

  The room quieted as they watched the small woman get to her feet and walk toward the French doors, placing a steadying hand on the patterned wallpaper as she made her way out.

  “What say you then?” asked Mr. Hastings, clapping his hands together. “Next month?”

  Arabella looked up at the earl with shining eyes and reached out her other hand for his. He felt her fingers, long and slender, cradled in his palm, and inclined his head a little to place them against his lips. The room, already warm from the blazing fire, grew warmer all of a sudden, and Haro had to resist the urge to loosen his cravat. “Next month? Why not next week?”

  “Ha!” laughed the mill owner. “I admire your enthusiasm for my daughter, my lord. But the wedding of the century cannot materialize in an instant. We must have a little time to order the finest fabrics, send for exotic foods, commission the best entertainment. A cathedral wedding, I think. In London.”

  “What? London?” Torin folded his arms akimbo. “All of the earls of Anglesford have been married at Woldwick. It is
tradition.”

  Hastings snorted. “No, no. It is too small, too dark, too dreary. We must have the wedding somewhere much larger, and much closer in—somewhere the rest of the ton can easily come to see my daughter wed an earl. What say you, Monsieur Bayeux? Is there a building in London grand enough to house the sight?”

  The hawk-nosed Frenchman frowned. “I would not know, sir.”

  “You are an architect. You must know your buildings. Where?”

  “I could not say.” Bayeux slipped his paper and drawing materials into his satchel. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment in the village.”

  “An appointment?” Mr. Hastings’ eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You just arrived in this county. Who could you possibly know hereabouts?”

  The architect rose to his feet. “When I went into the village earlier this morning to procure my drawing materials, I inquired after stone masons and found a man of good repute. I must confer with him about the materials available locally for use in this renovation.”

  “Ah, well.” Mr. Hastings relaxed. “Very good, very good.”

  “Will you be returning in time to dine with us?” asked Eda, playing the gracious hostess now that Lady Anglesford had retired from the room.

  “No.” Bayeux sent a glance to the sofa where Arabella and Haro were seated cozily. “I think not.”

  ***

  By the time dinner came—unfashionably early as usual since Woldwick’s cook was accustomed to keep country hours—the wedding date had been fixed for three weeks from the following Saturday.

  “That is such short notice,” said Torin, seizing fork and knife in either hand, “that I may not be able to attend. I shall consult my calendar, but….” He shrugged and took a bite of jellied eel.