I Love the Earl (9 page)

He sighed. “A game where we . . . tested each other.”

“Test? What sort of test?” She was instantly suspicious again. “What did he do?”

He traced one fingertip down the lines between her brows until they smoothed away. “You have no dowry, Maggie,” he whispered.

“What?” That made no sense. Everyone knew Francis had promised her forty thousand pounds. But Rhys kept stroking her face, and it was hard to keep up any outrage while he was touching her. “That’s ridiculous,” she murmured.

“The contract I signed specified that you had no dowry,” he said. “Nothing but the clothes and jewels you already own.”

“But—but you’d be ruined,” she said. “Your plans—your hopes— How can you call that a test?”

“He didn’t think I loved you,” he said simply. “He thought I was an opportunist, a scoundrel who wanted you only for the money. So he prepared a contract that made it very clear I could have you, and only you. The only money I would have from him would be five thousand pounds, if I agreed to walk away without you.”

“That is not a game!” she cried, his meaning finally sinking in.

“No, I rather think it was.” He gathered her close again. “And I won,” came his whisper in her ear. “He shall keep his money, but I shall have you. And that, my darling, makes me far richer.”

“Then—why did you speak of doubts? Did you doubt I would still marry you?” She pushed against his chest until she could look into his face.

She had never seen him look so grave. “I wouldn’t blame you if you jilted me,” he said. “I can never offer you this.” He waved one hand to indicate the grounds and house behind them. “I have an empty town house and a crumbling Welsh manor. I can’t offer you a fashionable life in London. You would be a fool to marry me now.”

“And if I didn’t,” she said faintly. “Would you marry one of those other ladies on Clyve’s list?”

“No.” The color seemed to have leached from his face. “Alpine goats have more appeal than they do.”

She sniffed, then gasped, then choked on a horrified laugh. “You can’t mean it.”

He didn’t laugh or even smile. “You could marry someone Durham approves of. You could keep your place in life.”

Margaret thought of the polished floors and soaring ceilings of Durham House, the rooms decorated to her own taste, and imagined having such a house of her own to set up and manage. Of the balls she could continue to attend, the fashionable clothing she could continue ordering, the society she could keep. And she thought of Rhys returning alone to his bare house, his steps echoing in the empty rooms, with more cupids falling from the ceiling. Of the witless idiots who would mock him and sneer at him for failing to marry an heiress. Of the fact that he had signed a marriage contract that condemned him to even deeper ruin, since now he would have a wife to support—because he loved her.

“I think I would rather herd goats with you than marry another man,” she said. He stared at her a moment, then his shoulders eased as if a cord had been cut. “I have been poor for most of my life,” she went on. “These few months as sister of a duke have been like a dream, but not always a happy one. Every moment with you, though . . . those have been happy. Somehow we will find a way. I would rather be poor with you than wealthy with another man.”

His eyes closed. “Maggie,” he whispered. “Darling, I’m sorry—”

“Shh.” She rose up on her toes to touch her lips to his. “Don’t be.” It was Francis’s fault, not Rhys’s, but she wasn’t interested in that right now. “If you love me, kiss me again.”

His smile was slow but real. “How many times, Miss de Lacey?”

“As many as you can manage.”

“And for how long, Miss de Lacey?” he murmured, his lips brushing hers.

She put her arms around his neck. “For the rest of my life.”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

M
argaret knocked at her brother’s study door. As she waited, she adjusted the cuffs on her traveling dress. The footmen were bringing down her trunks and taking them out to the wagon waiting in the street. She just had one last thing to do before she left forever. When the servant opened the door, she went inside.

“I’ve come to say good-bye, Francis,” she said calmly to her brother.

He scowled back. Since the day Rhys signed the contract, Francis had been surly and curt to everyone. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, and a glass of sack was never far from his hand. Today the whole decanter of wine sat at his elbow. “You’re leaving?”

“I am. Before I go, I wish to say a few words to you.”

He hesitated, then jerked his head in a single nod. Margaret waved the servant away, waiting until the fellow closed the door behind him. She turned back to her brother. “You, sir, are a snake.”

His eyebrows drew together sullenly, but he didn’t reply.

“Perhaps you think you did the right thing.” She shrugged. “You never bothered to tell me one word about what you planned to do, or why, so I don’t know what justification you made to yourself. Instead you took back all your money, which was your right—I told you to keep it from the start. I do not hold it against you, nor do I want it back. But instead of being a gentleman and a man of your word, you lied to Rhys, and for that I will never forgive you.”

“I thought he only wanted the money,” her brother muttered. He took a gulp of his wine. “He’s a damned fortune hunter, Meg.”

“He’s the man I love,” she flung back at him. “An earl, a respected and responsible man—and no different in fortune from every other man who courted me. What did you expect, when you told the world I would have forty thousand pounds for a dowry?”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. He stared into his glass. “I didn’t think you would be swayed by a tawdry seduction. You fell for him too quickly, Meg. Wait a year and I’ll restore the funds, if he’s still the one you want.”

“Wait a year?” She laughed in scorn. “What is another year to Margaret, who’s already waited three decades to find a man who could find her beautiful? Interesting? Desirable? I’d rather have Rhys and take in washing than wait a year merely to appease some suspicious whim of yours.”

“Will he still find you beautiful when his credit dries up and he can’t rebuild his estate?” Francis growled. “Will you still love him when your fine clothes have worn to rags?”

She raised her chin. “I will,” she said quietly. “I have been poor and plainly dressed before; I shall survive it again. Rhys has lived in his estate as it is, and is content to continue doing so.” She paused. “I’m sorry you can’t see that we truly care for each other, but I’m happy with my decision.”

Her brother swilled back the considerable wine in his glass. “I don’t want you to make a mistake, Meg,” he said thickly, looking almost gaunt with despair. “He’s seduced you—you must wait until the allure wears off. It will, I promise you. Better to suffer a bit of heartbreak now than years of regret, knowing you threw away your chance to be happy . . .”

When he said no more, she bit her lip in sudden understanding. “Someone broke your heart,” she guessed. He closed his eyes. “I never knew,” she said softly. “Oh, Francis—”

“Leave it,” he snapped. “It was a youthful mistake, and not one I’ll make again.”

“Yes, like the way you gave up all spirits after your first blue-deviled morning.”

“Marriage is far more important than that!” he roared, erupting out of his chair with such fury, she took a step backwards in alarm. “And more lasting. If you regret it and wish to come home in six months, there is nothing I can do! You will never be free of him.”

There was an element of torment in his voice she’d never heard before and didn’t quite understand. “I don’t want to be free of Rhys,” she said slowly. “Francis, I love him. He loves me. No matter what lies ahead for us, I trust him to be honorable, just as I vow to be with him. I’m not a schoolgirl any longer, with vague dreams of marriage that can’t possibly bear up in life. In truth, perhaps it’s better I’m a more mature woman. I suspect many bad marriages are born out of youth’s naivety and idealism.”

His mouth quirked in a bitter smile. “Too right you are, Meg. Too right.” He sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. You’re not a silly girl. I still think of you as a child, but of course you are not. And I daresay you’ve always been more level-headed than I in any event.”

Margaret hesitated. He looked older, beaten down, and tired. For the first time she realized he had lost weight since becoming the duke. His clothing, fine and elegant though it was, hung a bit on his tall frame. It occurred to her that he would be alone in this enormous mansion after she left, weighed down by duties and responsibilities without a single friend or trusted relative to lean on and confide in. It wasn’t like Francis to lean on anyone, but she felt a burst of compassion for him anyway. “I hope you won’t allow one mistake to keep you from ever risking love again. You would make a splendid husband.”

He stared out the window for a moment. “I highly doubt it.”

“Because you were wrong once? Or because you cannot trust the motives of anyone who would want to marry a duke?”

He shot her a sour look, then sighed, his gaze sweeping the room. “I suppose I have to consider it, for the sake of all this.”

“For your own sake, consider it,” she said firmly. “And for mine. I look forward to spoiling your children.”

A bit of real humor softened his expression. “They had better be sons. A daughter would destroy me. You’ve come damned close, and you’re only a sister.”

Margaret laughed. “Yes, sons! I wish you several sons, so you might reap the full measure of your sex’s pig-headedness.”

Francis smiled faintly. “Of course you would.” He turned back to the window. The grounds behind Durham House had been sadly neglected, and were still a mess of dug up landscape. “This isn’t mine, not really. It’s only mine to administer until the next generation comes along.” He paused, then said quietly, almost to himself, “Until my son inherits it.”

“First you need the wife.” She came up and straightened his lace jabot, flicking her hands over his velvet-clad shoulders. “A good, sensible lady who won’t dissolve in tears when you roar at her. Someone who can bring warmth and laughter to the house even when you’re in one of your grim moods. Someone who will make a good mother.

He grunted. “How will I find such a creature, if you leave?”

“Miss Cuthbert is still available to assist you in finding a match,” she offered, but he only looked at her grimly. She rolled her eyes. “Think of it as a lucrative investment. You never have any trouble finding those. And this time you shall have additional pleasures not found on the ’Change.”

He started to smile, then frowned. “Did Dowling—?”

“Did I what?” Rhys spoke from the doorway. Neither of them had heard it open, although a flustered servant hovered just behind him. His dark gaze rested on Margaret, steady and warm, before shifting to the duke. “Your Grace.” He bowed. “Miss de Lacey.”

She couldn’t help it; a wide smile spread across her face, and she managed to walk sedately to his side even though she wanted to run and throw her arms around him. “Lord Dowling is late for his bride,” she said lightly.

“Lord Dowling is ever so grateful she waited for him,” he replied, catching up her hand to kiss her knuckles. “I had a small errand to do.”

“Where are you going?” growled Francis.

“To the church,” Rhys said. “It’s our wedding day.”

Her brother seemed startled. She saw the dismay in his face before he masked it behind a scowl and grumbled something under his breath. “Won’t you come with us?” she asked on impulse. “Will you come to my wedding, Francis?”

“I don’t approve of this,” he muttered.

“That has been made abundantly clear,” said Rhys, squeezing Margaret’s hand. “But we would still be honored to have you stand up with us.”

The duke regarded them for a moment, then jerked his head. “Very well then.”

Durham was silent and glowered at him the entire way to the church, but Rhys barely felt it. He knew it made Margaret happy to have her brother there, even if he had treated them so abominably. He didn’t quite have it in him to forgive the duke so readily, but for Margaret’s sake, he could hold his tongue today.

The wedding was brief and small. Clarissa Stacpoole and Freddie Eccleston came, and Clyve was there. Aside from a loud, indrawn breath when Margaret repeated her vows, Durham said nothing during the ceremony. Margaret’s eyes grew wide when Rhys slid the ring on her finger, a wide gold band with a clear blue aquamarine set on it. He grinned at her in reply, and her answering smile was brilliant with happiness.

When the ceremony was over, Clarissa provided enough chatter for them all, although Clyve and Eccleston did contribute hearty congratulations. Margaret murmured an excuse to her friend and walked to where her brother stood apart from the rest.

“Can you be happy for me, Francis?” she asked softly. “For I am very happy.”

He kept his eyes fixed away from her. “I shall try. I suppose it will be easier if Dowling treats you properly.”

“I have no doubts. I believe—” Through the open church door, Margaret caught sight of a familiar and expected figure. “Pardon,” she said to her brother, and hurried forward to meet Miss Cuthbert.

“Am I late?” cried her companion. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was escaping its cap. “Oh dear, I’ve missed the wedding!”

“But not the congratulations.” Margaret pressed her hand. “We missed you.”

A fierce smile broke out on the older woman’s face. “I had a good reason, Miss de Lacey—or no, you are my Lady Dowling now! But here it is. I did my best.” She handed over a heavy purse.

Rhys had come up beside her. “What’s this?”

“My wedding gift to you.” Margaret gave it to him with a smile. “Since I could not provide Alpine goats.”

He looked inside, then sharply back at her. “ ’Tis money.”

“Nearly a thousand pounds,” whispered Miss Cuthbert. “All that lovely silk brought a pretty penny!”

“My gowns,” Margaret explained to her astonished husband. “I won’t need them in Wales anyway.”

“You sold your gowns?” Francis sounded outraged. “What were you thinking?”

“That there are more important things than clothes,” she told him.

“If ever I doubted my infinite riches in wedding you, this would remove them forever,” Rhys said. “I do so love a sensible woman.”

“And beautiful,” piped up Clarissa.

“Beyond compare,” agreed Rhys, eyes twinkling at his new wife.

“You are released from your employment, Miss Cuthbert,” said Francis. “You were shamefully neglectful of your duties.” The lady’s chin trembled, but she merely curtseyed.

“I shall provide the highest possible character reference,” Margaret told her.

“As will I.” Clarissa gave Francis a withering look. “And my mother, who is, as you know, the most well-known gossip in all London. You shall be turning offers away for years, Miss Cuthbert.”

“Thank you, my dear.” And Miss Cuthbert actually smiled.

“I’m surrounded by traitors,” said Francis heavily.

“All idiots are,” Margaret replied. “Accept it and be gracious. Will you send me off with a kiss?”

“You’re leaving now?”

“Yes.” Rhys laced his fingers through Margaret’s. “I’ve closed up my house in town, and we depart this very day. It’s a long journey to Wales.”

Clarissa began to sob. “Oh—oh, Margaret—I’m going to miss you so!”

The travel coach was waiting outside. Margaret bade everyone goodbye before turning to her brother. She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed his cheek. “Be happy,” she whispered. “I wish you as much love as I found.”

He never replied. As she and Rhys settled into the seats, and waved out the windows until Clarissa’s sobs couldn’t be heard and Miss Cuthbert’s fluttering handkerchief was lost in the sea of passersby, Margaret waited for some sign from her brother. But he never flinched, and just as the church vanished from sight, he turned and walked away.

“Are you very sorry?” Rhys finally asked when she sat back.

She sighed. “A little. But not sorry enough to give him his way.”

“Are you happy, then?”

“Blissfully.” She touched the ring. “Where did you get this? I didn’t expect one.”

“A happy oversight. When I sold everything, this was judged not worth selling, so it was left in the bank.” A note of apology entered his voice. “ ’Tis only an aquamarine, not a sapphire.”

“It’s perfect. I could not ask for a better wedding gift.”

At the mention of gift, her husband weighed the purse in one hand. “A good number of goats could be purchased with this.”

“Or cattle.” She grinned. “Or cupids. You know, I think you should consider parceling off the London property; there aren’t enough decent houses as it is, and now everyone wants to move west. And take a tenant for the house. Look how Mrs. Cornelys improved Carlisle House.”