To Marry an Heiress (12 page)

“I don’t see that happening,” she muttered.

“You could divorce him if he raped you.”

She thought of the gentleness of his touch, the heat of his mouth, his calming, murmured words. “He’d never force himself on me.”

“He might abandon you. Then you could divorce him.”

She couldn’t see Devon leaving her behind, not physically anyway. But emotionally…She won
dered if emotional abandonment was possible. She’d felt as though he’d erected a wall of ice between them as the solicitor had explained the dire situation.

“Why are you searching for ways for us to divorce?” she asked.

“Because it would get you both out of a situation that neither of you wants.”

A week ago she might have agreed she didn’t want this situation, but somewhere between his first kiss of her fingers and the comfort he’d offered immediately after her father had died—before her father’s poor judgment had become evident—she’d discovered she liked having Devon around.

She had an incredible urge to delve beneath the stuffy layers and discover the man beneath.

“I feel as though I owe it to him to stay. To be loyal. To right Papa’s wrong.”

“You’re not responsible for your father’s failure.”

“How can I not feel responsible, Lauren? Devon was willing to marry me, to give me children in exchange for money so he could rebuild his estate. The very least I can do is stand by Devon and help him out the best way I can.”

“What if he doesn’t want your help?” Lauren asked.

“I’m not sure men ever really know what they want. Besides I do have some feelings for him. There are times…” Her voice trailed off. How could she explain?

“What? Finish your thought,” Lauren urged.

“Times when he looks at me that I feel as though he might care for me a bit.”

“Of course he cares for you—if he has a lick of sense. Why do you persist in believing a man couldn’t love you?”

“Perhaps because no man ever has.”

The loneliness ate away at Georgina like a sore. She hadn’t seen Devon in three days, not since the solicitor’s hasty retreat.

She’d sat in her bedchamber, waiting for him to pay her a visit. She’d waited in vain.

Night after night at midnight she’d hear him pacing the hallway before withdrawing into his bedchamber. How fortunate they were to each have their own room.

Glancing in the mirror, she was not at all pleased with her appearance. Dark circles rested beneath her puffy eyes. She wore the blue dress that Devon seemed to favor. It would do well for this meeting.

Gathering her courage around her like a finely sewn cloak, she left her room and wandered to the library.

Pale light spilled out from beneath the closed doors. She considered knocking, but she wanted to give him no opportunity to rebuff her. Wrapping her fingers around the cold handle, she jerked it down, marched into the room, and froze.

Her husband, her dear husband, looked like hell.

He gazed at her through eyes that were as swollen and red as hers. A heavy beard shadowed his face.
His hair—usually every black strand in place—stuck up at odd angles, deep furrows indicating that he might have repeatedly plowed his fingers through it. Several buttons were loosened on the white billowy shirt, which was wrinkled enough to have been slept in.

Papers were strewn over his desk in disarray.

With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his leather chair. “What do you want,
countess?
”

The weariness in his voice kept her temper in check. Quietly she closed the door and approached. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

As calmly as possible, she sat in the chair across from him. “What did you learn?”

“That your father did indeed somehow manage to lose
everything
.”

Her heart sank. How could her father have returned to gambling when he knew the misery it had brought them before? Why risk it? She clearly didn’t understand his obsession. All it took was one turn of the card, and he became completely lost.

Devon bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck. She eased up in the chair. “Can’t you explain that you aren’t responsible for his debts?”

He lifted his gaze and pinned her with an icy glare. “I would have gained his wealth from you, sweeting. I can’t very well turn his debts aside.”

“But if you tell those to whom he owed money that you haven’t got the means to pay—”

He slammed his fist on the desk, and she jerked
like a puppet whose strings had just been yanked.

“No one is to know I haven’t the means,” he said in a tightly controlled voice.

“If we weren’t married, you wouldn’t have to concern yourself with his debt, would you?”

“But we are married.”

“We could get a divorce.”

His gaze hardened. “The men in my family do not go through the scandal of an expensive and time-consuming divorce.”

“My father did you a disservice. He failed to honor his word. Surely people will understand if you explain everything that happened and the reason you cast me aside.”

“My God. Each sentence that comes out of your mouth is worse than the one that came before it.” He slowly, menacingly stood, planted his hands on the desk, and leaned toward her. “As long as I breathe, no one is to ever know of this debacle. I shall find a way to rectify our dire financial situation.”

“If you knew of a way, you wouldn’t have resorted to marrying me in the first place.”

His defeated mien made her regret her words, but he had to understand that they could not remain together.

“Don’t be so proud,” she pleaded. “We can find a way to turn this disaster so it falls on me, and you won’t have to accept his debt.”

“Trust me, sweeting, your father’s debt is the least of my troubles. Pack your things. We’ll leave for
Huntingdon in the morning. I’ve instructed my solicitor to place this house on the market.”

Disbelief coursed through her. “I can’t have everything in this huge house packed by morning.”

“Not everything. Only your things. If you’ve taken a fancy to some small item, you may pack it. Everything else stays.” He walked to the window and gazed out. “Everything else is to be sold.”

She thought her heart might crack at his despondency. “Oh, Devon. I am so sorry.” She slowly rose to her feet. “My father—”

“Your father did not uphold his end of the bargain. Therefore neither shall I uphold mine. I shall never again warm your bed.”

Her breath backed up painfully in her lungs with the realization he would disregard her feelings, her dreams, as though they possessed no more substance than a whisper in the wind. “What?”

He turned from the window. “My arrangement with your father. In exchange for his wealth, I agreed to give you a child.”

He waved his hand dispassionately, as she imagined kings had done just before they regretfully sent someone to the chopping block.

“I believe you’ll agree he left to me no wealth.”

He considered her no asset at all. Yet her father had spoken true words. Life was more than money, and suddenly she found herself with a desperate desire to have him see
her
as worthy of his affections. “I can offer you more than wealth. I can give you an heir.”

“I have an heir.”

She felt as though he’d jerked the Aubusson rug she was standing on out from beneath her. The room spun, and she grabbed onto the back of the chair. “You have a child?”

“Two. A son and a daughter. You’ll no doubt meet them when we return to Huntingdon.”

“No doubt? We’ll be living in the same house.”

“But in separate wings. Besides, they have a governess who looks after them. You need not bother yourself with them.”

He made them sound as though they were pets, not children.

“But what of a spare? I thought the aristocracy was keen on having two sons.”

“I shall make do with what I have. It seems to be an acceptable punishment for having acted in haste.”

“In greed. You acted in greed, Devon.”

“Arguing over semantics, my dear countess, will gain neither of us anything. Accept that you are the wife of an impoverished nobleman and be done with it. We can at least live together civilly if not luxuriously.”

She considered simply packing her bags, walking out on him, traveling back to Texas, and making her own way in the world. She still had the ticket her father had purchased for her guaranteeing her passage back to Texas before he’d made arrangements for her marriage.

But she couldn’t quite get past the notion that he
had children. Children. Children who had a governess but no mother.

She angled her chin defiantly and nodded. “Very well. I’ll abide by your wishes for the moment. I owe you that much at least.”

A
s his coach journeyed along the road toward Huntingdon, Devon strove not to notice how his wife took delight in the rolling hills. She often reminded him of a child discovering the world and awed by its magnificence. Her high regard humbled him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a moment to appreciate the beauty of England.

Yet she was no child. She was a woman with a woman’s desires and needs. That she had so readily accepted his conditions for their continued association made him feel like a cantankerous curmudgeon. If she’d thrown a tantrum, as Margaret had often done, he might not have been sitting here feeling as though he was completely unworthy.

In his own defense, he’d held certain expectations regarding this marriage, and while his more gentlemanly self acknowledged she was not to blame for her father’s failure, the part of him struggling to sur
vive had lashed out like a cornered animal on the brink of madness.

He’d been surprised to discover she’d managed to pack all her belongings in one small trunk. He’d not been present at his London home when her things had been brought over. Still, he’d assumed she’d have several trunks, boxes, and bags.

She assured him she’d left nothing behind. He couldn’t imagine Margaret traveling abroad with only one trunk. He’d always hired two wagons to cart her belongings from Huntingdon to London and back. He’d arranged the same hauling services for Gina, only to discover he didn’t require them.

He really needed to learn to stop expecting his current wife to behave as his former wife had. He couldn’t recall Margaret ever peering at the countryside and showing an appreciation for it. Perhaps that was the reason she’d come to hate his land. He could only hope that Gina would not find it as loathsome.

“I’ve been thinking,” she began unexpectedly.

“And here I thought you’d been enjoying the scenery.”

She gave him a wry smile. “I can do both.”

She twisted the wedding band on her finger, studying it a moment before lifting her gaze to him. “I was thinking you should return my ring to the jeweler.”

He’d purchased it when he’d expected riches, when generosity was an easy matter. Necessity would turn him back into a miserly creature.

A miserly and fearful creature. He’d banned himself from her bed because he knew that once she un
derstood the true poverty of their existence, she’d toss him out on his arse. His pride couldn’t handle another exile. It was much easier to attack than to defend.

Margaret had taught him that lesson well.

“It’s not necessary that you sacrifice the ring,” he said quietly.

She intertwined her fingers and pressed her hands together as though to protect the ring. Her hands were not soft like a lady’s. He remembered the callused tips digging into his buttocks after the roughened palms had skimmed over his damp back. Her touch, unlike any he’d ever felt before, had enamored him. He shouldn’t have been so hasty to deny himself the pleasure of it.

“I have some jewelry that belonged to my mother. I have no idea what it’s worth, but it might pay off a few of my father’s debts,” she offered.

It had been a long while since he’d felt the stirrings of humanity. Taking money from her father was one thing, to take a precious item from her unthinkable.

“I doubt it would make enough difference to truly matter.”

She gazed out the window again. If she was anxious about arriving at her new home, she didn’t allow it to show. In profile, her long, slender neck reminded him of a graceful swan’s. There were aspects to her person that when he took the time to notice them he found remarkably appealing.

But it seemed he was always rushing through life, striving so hard to put his situation back on an even keel that he missed the finer moments of simply be
ing. Idleness had always seemed contrary to his nature. With a great deal of concentration, he’d learned to master sitting for hours, giving the appearance of doing nothing.

But even a carriage ride tested his patience. He would be more content to be walking alongside. Although he was traveling a great distance, sitting here made him feel as though he was wasting his time.

He needed to do
something
.

If her fidgeting was any indication, Georgina experienced the same impatience. An Englishwoman would sit perfectly still no matter how badly she wished to move. She understood decorum and all its subtle nuances.

His wife knew little about playing the game.

“How is it that you’d never been kissed?”

She snapped her attention away from the countryside, her dark brows furrowing. It was strange how the more he gazed at her, the less unattractive she seemed. Her features didn’t change, but his perception of them did.

“What?”

And his perception of
her
was altering. He now realized her question didn’t indicate that she hadn’t heard him, but rather she was having a difficult time believing he’d asked what he had.

“You heard me,” he said, a challenging edge to his voice. “It’s not as though you’re hideous.”

“Well, thank you for that backhanded compliment.”

She turned her head and stared out the window.

“I meant no insult. I simply can’t fathom that a
woman could go through life and never have known a kiss.”

The furrows grew shallow, and the harsh lines around her mouth softened. He didn’t think she was seeing the trees and land that spread out before them. Instead she seemed to be gazing inward.

“I was nine when the war started. Thirteen when it ended. There weren’t many fellas around during those years.”

“No men, certainly, but there would have been children.”

Slowly she shook her head and looked at him with sad eyes. “Not many boys stayed behind. As soon as they could beat a drum, they joined their father or older brother on the battlefield. The fellas from a town fought together, which meant if the Yankees were victorious, a town could lose most of its men. That’s what happened to Fortune.”

She glanced back out the window. “The few who did return…Defeat haunted them. When you’ve survived hell, it’s hard to trust in the existence of heaven.”

She lifted a shoulder slightly. “Those who might have shown an interest in me before the war had grown into men surrounded by blood and death. They weren’t quite comfortable around girls. Besides, so few returned, they could have their choice of girls. Why settle for tin when you can have gold?”

He contemplated telling her that he didn’t consider her tin, but then neither was she gold. She hovered somewhere in between—common, yet pre
cious. Why in God’s name did he think that?

“Your eyes carry that haunted, defeated look,” she said softly.

Her gaze was trained on him now, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she was looking down the sight of a rifle, getting a good bead on him, searching for his vulnerable spot so she could destroy him with one well-aimed shot.

“I don’t see how that can be,
countess
, when I’ve never gone to war.”

“Battles aren’t always fought over land or between nations.”

“I assume you speak from experience.”

She gave him a soft smile before turning her attention back to the countryside.

“We are not engaged in a war, you and I,” he announced.

“I’m glad you feel that way,
my lord
, because if we were, you’d lose.”

There it was again. The obstinate part of her nature that she kept hidden, as though she wasn’t quite certain if it belonged to her or not.

He didn’t want to be intrigued by her, and yet he was. What baffled him was that he was actually pleased he did not have to return to Huntingdon alone.

Georgina fought desperately not to gawk as she stepped into what she supposed was the main foyer. To her embarrassment, her mouth had dropped open when the driver—she was relatively certain a groom should have accompanied them on
the trip, but it seemed Devon had a smaller staff than Ravenleigh—had helped her out of Devon’s carriage and she’d caught her first sight of his home.

His home. Heavens! From what she’d been able to see as they approached, she could have fitted almost every store that lined the main street of Fortune inside it.

But once inside, she noticed the evident signs of deterioration. The floors were not polished to the same sheen as those in London were. The draperies were faded.

Since guests here were no doubt few and far between, Devon had not needed to keep up a front, as he had in London, where people could easily drop by. Still, the place came close to being a palace as far as she was concerned.

Gilded chandeliers, statues, paintings. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling. Someone had painted cherubs frolicking in fields. She slowly turned, resisting the strong desire to lie on the floor so she could study the artwork without straining her neck.

“Milord, you’ve arrived,” a stately voice announced.

She jerked around and watched as the butler approached. His jacket was frayed at the edges, and his shoes had seen better days, yet he stopped before them with a haughty dignity and bowed slightly.

“Winston, please see that the east wing is prepared for my…wife,” Devon commanded in a strained voice. “And see that she is made to feel at home there.”

She didn’t think Winston could have looked more shocked if Devon had aimed a loaded pistol at him.

He recovered quickly and tilted his head slightly. “Milady, if you’ll allow me to escort you to the east wing.”

“What about the children?” she asked, turning her attention to her husband.

“I’ll introduce you to them later. At present, I have important matters to which I must attend.”

“What could possibly be more important than your children?”

Fury flashed in his eyes, and a jaw muscle contracted. “Winston, where are the children?”

“In the day nursery, milord.”

“Countess, if you’ll honor me with your presence, I’ll make introductions, after which you may retire to your wing.”

He crooked his elbow, a courtesy gesture he might not have made if the butler hadn’t been standing nearby. She slipped her arm through his, surprised by the firmness that greeted her—a hardness caused more by restrained anger than arduous work.

“Winston, see to her ladyship’s accommodations.”

“Yes, milord.”

Devon led her down the long, wide expanse of the hallway and up the grand sweeping staircase.

“Never question my actions in front of the servants again,” he warned through clenched teeth once Winston was no longer within hearing.

“Forgive me,
my lord
. I was under the impression that I was about to be banished to the farthest re
gions of the house, and I wasn’t certain if I’d ever see hide nor hair of you again.”

He snapped his head around. “You are my countess. Our spending some time together will be unavoidable.”

She slipped her arm free of his. It took him two steps to realize she wasn’t following like an adoring pet. He glared at her.

“Devon, this arrangement is asinine.”

“Lest we forget, allow me to remind you this arrangement came about as a result of your father’s inability to walk away from a gaming table.”

“You’re not the only one he hurt.”

He averted his gaze, his hand gripping the banister until his knuckles turned white. “He did not hurt me. He failed to uphold his end of the bargain, and for his weakness I am forced to pay an extremely steep price.”

He’d promised Devon wealth and given him nothing. She couldn’t even claim to have a husband after the journey they’d taken for the most part in complete, absolute, infuriating silence.

“Although I must admit it does not seem he did well by you either. However, he could have done worse. At least I am not in the habit of striking women.”

“You think blows can only be made against flesh?”

He blanched. Civilized Englishmen seemed to have no way to release their anger. Back home she would have ridden a horse hard, galloped him until they were bone-tired.

She placed her hand on his arm. “Devon, we’re both weary from the journey and disappointed. Introduce me to the children. Then we can part company, and with any luck—in this massive structure—you’ll never set eyes on me again.”

He began walking up the stairs. “As I mentioned, Countess, there are times when we’ll be unable to avoid each other’s company. Dinner, for one. I’ll not have the servants whispering about our failure to dine together.”

He was exiling her to the farthest regions of his home, and he was worried about meals? She considered pointing out his flawed logic, but she thought it might be best if they did indeed live at opposite ends of the house. Their wedding night had given her unexpected memories to cherish. He’d thought he was getting something out of the bargain then.

She dared not contemplate his bedding her when he knew his only prize was her. She didn’t think he’d be as thoughtful, as considerate. The act would be cold and leave her feeling emptier than she felt now.

The hallway at the top of the stairs was as remarkable as the foyer, although she also noticed signs of its decline. How hard it must be for Devon to witness such grandeur aging ungracefully.

At the end of the wide corridor, he opened a heavy mahogany door. She preceded him inside to what she instinctively knew was a day nursery. A rocking horse stood unused in a corner. Books lined a tiny set of shelves. A large dollhouse dominated a section of one wall.

And children. Children sat at a small table with a woman who looked as though she had one foot in the grave and was gingerly lifting the other one to join it. Her bones creaked as she stood. “Milord.”

The children snapped their heads around. “Father!” they yelled in unison.

The children stood and with their arms raised, they dashed across the room.

The harsh rumble of Devon clearing his throat bounced off the high ceilings.

The children staggered to a stop, their little chests heaving, their eyes once bright with joy now downcast in shame.

“That is hardly the manner in which children take leave of a table,” Devon said sternly.

The children spun on their heels, their tiny shoulders slumped forward in dejection as they trudged back to the table and straightened their chairs before turning to face their father as though they were soldiers about to be inspected by a general.