Authors: Heather Cullman
Edgar spared her an impatient look. “What of your feelings?”
She flailed her arms in exasperation. “Don’t you think it even the least bit important that I love the man I marry?”
“No.” It was more a snort than a reply.
“Well, I do.”
Another snort. “And what, pray tell, does a green chit like you know of love?”
“Obviously more than you do,” she retorted with a sniff.
His eyes narrowed. “Oh? And I suppose that you’re going to tell me that there is someone you love?”
She met his gaze defiantly. “As a matter of fact, there is.”
“Oh, my. Sophie … dear,” Heloise wheezed, short of breath as she always grew when anxious. “You haven’t done anything … ruinous … have you?” “Calm down, Mother. Of course she hasn’t.” Edgar shifted his gaze from his rebellious cousin to the now panting Heloise. “She hasn’t been out of our sight long enough to do more than steal a kiss or two.” Turning his attention back to Sophie, he drawled, “Now, Cuz. Shall I guess with whom you shared those kisses?”
She shrugged. “Why bother with games? I’ve made no secret of my feelings for Lord Oxley.”
“Oxley. Bah!” He spat the words as if the taste of them offended him. “A mere viscount with only ten thousand a year. He might do well enough for a vicar’s daughter or a chit with no expectations. But you, my dear, can and will look much higher.”
“And by higher you mean Lyndhurst, I suppose?” she sneered.
“Indeed I do. Why settle for a viscount when you can have a future marquess? And a rich one at that?” “Because I don’t love Lyndhurst, and I would rather be the viscountess of a man I love than the marchioness of one I abhor.”
Edgar’s eyes narrowed further until they were little more than glittering slits. “And how, pray tell, do you intend to rub along on his paltry ten thousand a year? You’ve spent close to that amount on frippery and gewgaws this year alone.”
“You seem to be forgetting the fortune my father left me,” she smugly pointed out. “Combine that with Julian’s ten thousand and we shall get on quite splendidly, I assure you.”
“Edgar,” Heloise puffed. “I really think you should tell — “
“Let me handle this, Mother. It’s your overindulgence that has made her so willful. Besides — ” his thin lips twisted into a cynical smile ” — as you’re so fond of pointing out, I am her guardian. As such, it is my duty to see that she makes the best possible match. And I’ve decided that that match is Lyndhurst.”
“And if I refuse to marry him?” Sophie flung back. “Then you shall be hauled off to King’s Bench prison, where the best offer you’re likely to receive will be one of whoredom.”
Sophie gasped, momentarily taken aback. Then she saw the words for what they were: a vain attempt to bend her to his will, and she laughed. “What utter rubbish! You can’t send me to prison for refusing to marry Lyndhurst!”
“No. But your creditors can send you there for being unable to settle your accounts,” he grimly retorted.
“But of course I can settle them. You know I can,” she exclaimed, ignoring the implication of his words. “You yourself have put it about time and again that I have sixty-eight thousand pounds, plus a fine income from my father’s estate.”
Edgar looked away, rubbing his temples as if they suddenly ached. Closing his eyes, he gritted out, “The estate was sold three years ago, and your sixty-eight thousand pounds are gone.”
“What! But that can’t be!” she cried, desperately telling herself that it was another ruse. “You told the entire ton — “
“Lies to buy you
entree
into society. With your charm and beauty, I was certain that you would land a rich husband and save us all from debtors prison.”
“And you have. You’ve landed Lyndhurst,” her aunt piped in, giving Sophie’s hand a squeeze. “Marry him, and you shall never have to worry about funds again. None of us will.”
Sophie tore her hand from her aunt’s, glancing wildly from her to Edgar and then back again. “But my fortune … how . .
Edgar and Heloise stared at each other, as if trying to fob the duty of explaining off on the other. Then her aunt sighed and turned back to Sophie. Her voice hitching with breathlessness, she began, “It’s all the fault of your Uncle John, God rest his soul, and his fondness for gambling hells.”
“Are you saying that he gambled away my entire fortune?” Sophie exclaimed, unable to believe her kindly uncle capable of such villainy.
Her aunt shook her head so hard that motes of jet down floated from the plumes in her hair. “Oh, no. No! He never touched a shilling of your inheritance. Your sixty-eight thousand was fully intact when he died. Indeed, he even managed to save an additional twelve hundred pounds from the annual income you received from your father’s estate.”
“Then, how … but … I-I don’t understand,” she choked out, beyond bewilderment.
Heloise shot her son a beseeching look. When it was clear that no help was forthcoming, she sighed again and replied, “Well, you see, dear. After he died, we discovered that he’d left some rather, um, astonishing debts. Indeed, he’d even given a note of mortgage on Mar-wood Manor.”
Sophie felt as if someone had punched her in the belly. “He lost Marwood?” she whispered, remembering the stories her mother had told her of her happy childhood at the estate, as well as her own jolly memories of the place. That her own children would never float toy boats upon the garden pond or play hide-and-seek in the maze of hidden passages brought tears to her eyes. Her aunt nodded solemnly. “The man holding the note seized it two months after your uncle’s death.” She wrinkled her nose. “And a more distasteful person I’ve never seen. Anyway — ” she shook her head as if to dispel the thoughts of Marwood’s unsavory new owner — -“without the income from the estate, we hadn’t a prayer of repaying the rest of the debts. So you see, Eddie had no choice but to borrow the funds from your inheritance to discharge them.”
“And exactly how much did he ‘borrow’?” Sophie inquired, not even trying to mask her bitterness.
“Forty-two thousand,” Edgar snapped. “And as your new guardian, it was all quite right and legal that I do so.”
“But how can it be legal? I was told that the income from my father’s estate was to be used to keep me, and that the sixty-eight thousand we realized from the sale of his business interests was to be my dowry.”
Edgar’s lips flattened into a harsh line. “Oh, it was perfectly legal, I assure you. You see, Cuz, while it’s true that your father’s will bequested everything to you, your inheritance was entrusted to my father, your guardian. Therefore, it was up to him to determine how best to administer your monies, and he decided upon the plan you just described.”
“And an excellent plan it was,” Heloise commented with a nod.
Ignoring her annotation, he proceeded, “When he died, your guardianship naturally fell to me, as did the right to govern your funds. And I decided that the best use for them was to discharge my father’s debt so we could continue to provide you with a home.”
“B-but what of my remaining twenty-seven thousand pounds? What of my father’s estate?” Sophie choked out, not certain if she should scream or weep.
It was Heloise’s turn to explain. “You see, dear. About three years ago, Eddie met a man who offered him a chance to invest in a shipping venture to China. He said that he could more than triple his investment. Thinking it a way to pay back the monies he’d borrowed from you, plus make a handsome profit for himself, he invested the remainder of your fortune.”
“And?” Sophie prompted, though she already knew that she wasn’t going to like the outcome of the tale.
Her aunt looked away. “The man turned out to be a fraud.”
“And so you lost everything. My dowry. My father’s estate.”
“No. Not the estate,” Edgar quickly interjected. “That I sold to keep us for the last three years, and to finance your launch into society. At least we had enough to pay for part of it. As for the balance, well, once I’d purchased us the illusion of wealth, the tradesmen were eager enough to extend credit.”
“Credit you expected to hoodwink my husband into paying,” Sophie spat.
Heloise made a clucking noise and patted her knee. “Really, dear. You mustn’t think too unkindly of Eddie. He only did what he had to do to insure your future. And it will be insured if you marry Lyndhurst.”
“Will it indeed? And what happens when he discovers our deception?” she demanded. “Even I know that settlements must be made and dowries paid before the wedding can take place.”
Edgar eyed her coldly. “I’ve already told him that our solicitor’s son was wounded in Alexandria and that he has gone there to bring him home. Naturally, he’s not expected back for several months.” He laughed. “By the time his lordship learns that there is no solicitor, you’ll have eloped with him and he shall have had his wedding night. A man with Lyndhurst’s pride isn’t going to risk letting it be known that he was played for a fool.” “Perhaps not,” Sophie whispered brokenly, suddenly more tired than she’d ever been in her life. “But he shall no doubt hate me and strive to make my life miserable.” “Cuz …” Edgar looked almost regretful as he reached over to take her hands. She jerked them away and crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him in a way that clearly conveyed the hurt and betrayal she was helpless to voice. He dropped his hands to his lap with a sigh. “See here, Sophie. I realize that things will be difficult for you at first. And I’m sorry for that. I truly am. However, I feel certain that he’ll come around and forgive you once you present him with an heir.”
“And if I fail to conceive before he learns the truth? What then? I doubt he’ll seek the bed of a woman he loathes.” Was that really her voice, so weak and raw?
“Well, then we shall just have to hope that his lust is stronger than his pride.”
Sophie shuddered at the thought of suffering Lyndhurst’s lust. Yet what choice did she have?
Lyndhurst or prison.
A sob of defeat tore from her chest. What choice indeed?
Chapter 2
“My lord?”
Nicholas Somerville, the Earl of Lyndhurst, tossed aside his ruined neck cloth and turned from the mirror to inspect the Hessians his valet offered for his approval. Narrowing his eyes critically, he scrutinized their gleaming contours, searching for the slightest blemish. When he found none, he nodded once and returned to the exacting task of donning his neck cloth.
Unlike most mornings, when he tied it with mindless ease, this morning the starched length of cloth refused to be drawn into a symmetrical knot, resulting in the growing pile of rumpled muslin at his feet. Not, of course, that he could compare this morning to those which had come before it. No. Today was different. Special.
Today he was to propose to the incomparable Miss Barrington.
And that meant that every detail of both his person and attire must be perfect. Thus resolved, he picked up a fresh neck cloth and resumed his quest for a flawless knot.
“My lord? Will this do?”
Nicholas’s fingers slipped, crushing the stiff fabric between them. Cursing his clumsiness, he glanced to where his valet stood holding the modishly embroidered red waistcoat his brother, Quentin, had given him for his birthday.
For a brief moment he considered the garment, wondering if the ever-fashionable Miss Barrington might favor it. Then he shook his head and returned his attention to his neck cloth. “Perhaps something a little less, um, colorful might be more appropriate to the occasion, George,” he said, eyeing his spoiled neckwear with frustration. “We wouldn’t want Miss Barrington to think me suddenly possessed of foppish tendencies, would we?” George chuckled. “You could rouge your cheeks and wear a dozen patches, my lord, and no one would think you anything but a gallant. You are too fine a man to ever be considered less.”
It was Nicholas’s turn to laugh. “Spoken like a good and loyal servant. Remind me to raise your wages.” “You are ever generous, my lord,” the man countered, moving to the wardrobe at the opposite end of the room. “And if I might be so bold as to comment, Miss Barrington is a most fortunate young lady to be engaged to you.”
Nicholas sobered instantly. “She hasn’t accepted me yet.”
“But she will. You’re counted among the finest gentlemen in England. How can she refuse you?”
How indeed? Nicholas mused, ripping off the ruined neck cloth and tossing it onto the discard pile. The name he offered her was old and respected, the attending title one of power. As for his fortune, well, it ranked among the mightiest in England. Possessed as he was of all those attributes, he could have his pick of the Season’s finest marriage market offerings.
And he’d selected Miss Barrington.
Smiling his bemusement at his choice, he plucked a new neck cloth from the stack before him, and arranged it around his collar. Beautiful,
young
Sophia Barrington. She wasn’t at all what he’d had in mind when he’d decided to take a bride. Indeed, she was the exact opposite of the sort of woman he’d envisioned.
Having turned twenty-eight the past January, he’d at last given into his mother’s badgering and agreed to take a wife. Not, of course, that his mother had truly had anything to do with the decision, though he chose to let her believe that she had. No, the truth was that he’d promised himself long ago that if he hadn’t fallen in love by the age of twenty-eight, that he would come to London and simply pick a suitable miss.