To Marry an Heiress (4 page)

He tilted his head slightly in a semblance of a bow. “Having recently met your father, I can honestly say it is an honor to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Pierce.”

He
was
the one! And with that certainty, his interest in her became painfully obvious.

She studied him more carefully. His white silk waistcoat was straining against its buttons. The cuffed sleeves of his jacket were frayed around the edges and sadly out of date. Men weren’t wearing cuffed sleeves this season. His tight trousers had also seen better days. His shoes, though polished to a shine, revealed worn leather.

Unlike the other men in the room, he hadn’t bothered to keep up with the trendier fashions. Some
might attribute his slightly unstylish attire to the fact that he’d been in seclusion after the loss of his wife, but Georgina felt certain that she knew the truth of his situation.

As she’d suspected, the man who had expressed an interest in her was an impoverished nobleman. She could decipher his reasons as though he’d engraved them across his forehead. These men who lived off the hard work of their ancestors were spoiled, and when the coffers were empty, they found it much easier to marry money than to earn it.

Then he smiled fully, exhibiting a charm with which he’d no doubt been born. And she realized that if she bore his son, he would resemble his father. He would know what it was to be adored. And he himself would be titled.

Wasn’t that the way English law worked? The entire estate and its title passed down from father to eldest son. She’d seen the deference given to the first-born sons among the aristocracy. She hated to admit that she’d be pleased to give her son an advantage in life. But was it advantageous to have everything handed to you?

Was she really any different from the man standing before her? She wasn’t foolish enough to think she’d earned his love or his interest. He needed an association with her father, and marriage to her was the most expedient route.

“Miss Fairfield won’t chastise you for speaking to me now that we’ve been formally introduced,” he said.

But she could think of nothing intelligent to utter.
I know who you are. I know why you’re here. We will not make a good match.

And yet she really didn’t know if the last was true. He looked as though like her, he, too, wished he was anywhere else.

“The cat seems to have gotten hold of her tongue,” Lauren said with a soft chuckle.

“So it would appear,” he said solemnly. “Might I inquire as to whether you’re enjoying your holiday in London?”

“Uh, yes, Mr. Huntingdon, I am.” She didn’t know why neither her brain nor her tongue seemed to want to function.

“What do you fancy most?” he asked.

Strangely she thought he sounded as though he truly cared. What if he really did have an interest in her beyond her father’s money?

“I enjoy riding Lord Ravenleigh’s horses through Hyde Park in the morning.”

“My cousin does have a fine stable of animals.” He bowed slightly. “If you ladies will excuse me, I shall take my leave before I arouse jealousy among my peers for dominating your time.”

Georgina watched him walk away. She didn’t want to be fascinated by his supple movements, didn’t want to wonder what it might be like to dance with him, to have his undivided attention.

“We’ve been spending all day, every day together. When in the world did you go riding?” Lauren asked, breaking into her thoughts.

“In the morning long before you’re awake.”

“Who is chaperoning you?”

“No one. I’m an adult. I ride alone at home. Why not here?”

“Because the rules are different here. And for goodness sake, if he speaks to you again, remember to address him as my lord, not Mr. Huntingdon. The proper form of address is extremely important if you want to make a good impression.”

Georgina had little doubt she’d made an impression. Perhaps having met her, he would report to her father that he no longer had any interest in her.

How odd that she suddenly found she had an interest in him.

D
evon had feared gaining his introduction to Miss Pierce would arouse the curiosity of the other gentlemen in attendance and they might seek her out as well. He’d worried that he’d forfeit his advantage if she were smitten by someone who possessed the ability to offer her more than he could. But if anyone had noticed, he was apparently not intrigued.

Devon had yet to see Miss Pierce dance.

After several attempts, one insistent fellow had lured Miss Fairfield away from her friend. Left on her own, Miss Pierce neither conversed nor flirted but seemed to prefer the company of potted palms.

He spotted her hidden behind the graceful fronds, peering out as though she wasn’t quite certain what activities one engaged in while in attendance at such an affair. Twice his gaze had clashed with hers when she’d discovered him watching her.
She did not play coy, as most women did. She appeared to be a solitary soul, and that notion appealed to him immensely.

She was unfashionably tall and slender. Her skin was dark, almost weathered, as though she’d spent a good deal of time in the sun without benefit of a parasol. Her reddish-brown hair was beginning to droop, as though a lover had repeatedly tunneled his fingers through it. But he hadn’t seen her saunter away for a secret assignation.

Her clothing was garish beyond measure. He did not as a rule take notice of women’s fashions, but he was fairly certain hers was
not
in vogue. However, a reputable seamstress could change that.

Convincing her that he found her beautiful and had fallen in love with her would be no easy task. It would take precious time he did not have the luxury of wasting.

He doubted he would ever consider her beautiful, and he knew beyond any doubt that he would never fall in love with her. Yet he was pleasantly surprised to discover that she did indeed intrigue him.

He caught sight of her slipping through the glass doors leading into the garden. He supposed if he was going to make his intent to court her known, she’d provided him with the perfect opportunity. As unobtrusively as possible, he followed her outside.

He found her standing at the edge of the porch, gripping the wrought-iron railing. He wondered if she was as disappointed in the evening as Margaret would have been had she garnered so little attention.

Men had fluttered around Margaret as though
they were bees hoping for a sip of nectar, even after he and she were married. Their constant attention had led him to the discovery of a jealous streak that caused him to see red. He doubted it would ever surface with Miss Pierce as his wife, and that notion caused him a great deal of relief.

He did not consider her hideous. Only unattractive. Yet as he neared her, he realized she wasn’t truly plain. She simply possessed no feature that stood out and grabbed one’s attention. Limned by moonlight with the forgiving night shadows cast around her, she appeared almost…lovely. In a lonely sort of way.

Like any woman, she deserved a man who appreciated what she had to offer, not a man whose claim of interest was sparked by the coins jingling in her father’s pockets.

For the length of a heartbeat, he debated the cruelty she might one day accuse him of if she ever learned the truth. He would simply have to bury it deeply and cover the lies with false glitter.

“The beauty of the moon pales when compared with your loveliness.” He cringed. Devil be damned. That was the most awful thing he’d ever murmured to a woman.

It had been years since he’d played the courtship game, and he’d grown unaccountably sloppy. All he’d needed was one little lie, one tiny flirtatious comment, and he’d have had her nestled within his palm. The problem was that he didn’t truly want her in his palm. He only wanted his fist around her father’s money.

He was fairly certain she’d never had a compliment thrown her way. Otherwise, why would her father be willing to purchase what she had yet to obtain? Why had he insisted that he convince her that she was beautiful? Why pretend to love her unless she had no experience with being loved?

He had expected her to turn to him with adoring eyes. Instead she continued to look at the lawn shadowed by the moon.

“Consider me plain, my lord. Consider me dull. But never, never consider me stupid.”

She faced him then, one eyebrow arched, daring him to deny her accusation, daring him to give her another compliment. He could do no more than wish a great gaping hole would suddenly appear and the earth would swallow him up. She gave a small nod, as though his silence confirmed her suspicions, and turned her gaze back to the lawn.

“You must be a desperate man,” she said quietly. “What did my father offer you?”

So much for keeping his promise to her father that she would never know of the arrangement. But if he did not uphold his end of the bargain, would her father honor his? Or would he locate a man more adept at deception?

He debated the wisdom of denying her father had offered him anything, but how long would it take a relationship built on the foundation of a lie to crumble? To woo her with false flattery was one thing. To boldly lie…

As though sensing his dilemma, she said, “I won’t tell him you confessed.”

“Unlimited access to his wealth.”

He clenched his jaws and balled his fists at his sides, hating the need he heard shimmering in his voice. The desperation she must have also heard.

Her silence spoke loudly. She’d wished to humiliate him, and now she was relishing her accomplishment. He didn’t need this degradation, nor did he want it. He’d find another way to handle his ghastly situation. He turned on his heel and began to walk away.

“I’m not opposed to your suit, my lord.”

He stopped but refused to look at her. This experience was more humiliating than meeting with her father.

“I’ve been standing here silently playing devil’s advocate with myself. What if I married you? What if I didn’t? What would the future hold if I returned to Texas? What would it bring if I remained here? I’m twenty-six years old.” She released a small, self-deprecating laugh. “And I’ve never been kissed.”

He turned then, slowly, realizing that perhaps this moment was as difficult for her as it was for him. She was still watching the lawn as though she hoped to catch a glimpse of the grass growing.

“My father thinks you would make me happy.”

“I would do all in my power to see that you don’t regret having me as a husband.”

She looked at him, her worries written in deep lines on her face. “What about you? Will you resent having me for your wife?”

“Resent salvation, Miss Pierce? I think it highly unlikely.”

“What sort of marriage do you see us having?” she asked.

Although he was familiar with the pleasures and perils of marriage, he could not easily sum up the complicated answer to so simple a question. “Would you care to take a stroll through the garden with me?”

“Isn’t it scandalous for a woman to be alone with a man?”

He cocked his head. “Miss Pierce, you have already invited scandal by venturing outside without a chaperone.”

“A body can’t even step out without someone tagging along?”

A body?
Her
body. If he brought her back flush against his chest, he thought he might possibly be able to rest his chin on the top of her head.

He dropped his gaze to her tapping foot. Her irritation was incredibly easy to read. His society provided rules for every occasion, rules a person was expected to follow. He wondered how long it would take her to adapt to the code.

“Once tarnished, a woman’s reputation can never again shine,” he told her.

“You care about things like reputation?”

“Indeed I do. Shall we take that stroll?”

“Without a chaperone?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She released a small laugh that took him off guard. A soft lilt that floated on the evening breeze, an inviting warmth that caused him to think that
perhaps marriage to her would not be as awful as he’d imagined.

“Seems you only worry about the rules if you think you’ll get caught breaking them,” she said.

“Quite so.” He extended his crooked elbow toward her. “Shall we?”

She reached out as though she would place her hand on his arm, and then, as though thinking better of it, she simply said, “Just lead the way.”

He dropped his arm to his side and began walking along the cobblestone path. She fell into step beside him, her skirts swishing around her. It had been an incredibly long time since he’d strolled with a lady.

Beneath the perfume of roses wafting around them, he caught the whiff of another scent, subtle but alluring. He didn’t recognize the sweet fragrance, but he knew it belonged to the woman beside him. He wondered what other surprises he might discover about her.

“You were going to explain what I could expect if we got married,” she said.

If?
Did these Americans never commit to anything?

“Right,” he answered succinctly. “Our marriage would be typical of the English aristocracy. We would spend the summer in the London house and the rest of the time at my country estate.”

“
Your
country estate?”

Wealth gave her an advantage over him he didn’t much fancy but knew he would have to accept. He fought to keep the irritation from seeping into his
voice. It would not do at this early stage of the courtship to give her cause to doubt his sincerity. “
Our
country estate.”

“How would you treat me?”

“With the utmost respect, naturally.” He glanced over at her, lost in the shadows. He’d suggested the walk because he found it easier to speak when he could not look directly into the eyes of another—when pity was absorbed by the darkness. “And with gratitude. My estate, the life I have always known, is crumbling around me.”

“You could get a job,” she suggested.

Or slit his throat, his preferred choice if only allowed the two. “People of my station do not
get jobs
.”

“I have to confess I don’t understand your aversion to working.”

“A gentleman does not work. It is the one remaining aspect of our lives that separates us from the masses.” Those of the middle class who were becoming landowners, those who were acquiring wealth and imitating the aristocracy. Those who could never buy their way into the position in which Devon had been born.

Men such as her father. Yet it seemed what he couldn’t acquire for himself, he could boldly purchase for his daughter.

“But if it’s a matter of going hungry—”

“I am not yet at the point of hunger. Marriage is an acceptable solution. Besides, your father informs me you wish to have a child. That I can give you.”

“That?”

She sounded truly horrified. An Englishwoman
would be tripping over herself to gain his favor, and this woman was waging war against the subtle nuances of their conversation.

“We’re talking about a child—” she began.

“I realize that,” he interrupted. “I chose my words poorly. I simply meant that I have the ability to give you a son or daughter.”

“And you’ll be willing to give me a child?”

“Absolutely.”

“Will you love this baby or resent him?”

“Why would I resent it?”

They had circled back to the spot where they’d begun their journey. She stopped walking and stared at him, giving him the distinct impression she could see through the night into his soul.

“You strike me as being a proud man,” she said softly. “I suppose I worry you’ll come to resent what marriage to me gained you.”

“As I stated earlier, you may rest assured that particular circumstance will not happen. I grew up knowing my place in society and understanding well its cost.”

Distant lights made it easier to see her silhouette. She nodded slightly, and he wondered if she’d been contemplating his words. They seemed wholly inadequate to express what he felt and what he was willing to sacrifice in order to ensure the well-being of Huntingdon. It was not so much the present that concerned him, but the future…and the past.

He felt as though he was disappointing those who had come before and failing those who would come after.

“Will it embarrass you to have such an unsophisticated wife?” she asked.

“Sophistication can be learned.”

“And if I’ve no desire to be taught?”

Her tone issued a definite, defiant challenge. What a contradiction she was: hiding out one moment, challenging him the next.

Obviously she would not change for him. Could he change for her? Whatever embarrassment she might cause him would pale when compared to the mortification he was on the brink of enduring.

“Then I shall adjust my thinking,” he assured her.

“Tell me about your family’s estate,” she ordered gently.

His chest tightened with the memories of walking across the fields with his father. “Huntingdon has seen better days. The manor is grand, the land beautiful. I have two thousand acres. The tenants pay a pound per acre yearly, but few tenants are left to work the fields. Most have moved to the cities in search of employment in the various industries, work which will put more money in their pockets. The old life must give way to the new, I suppose. Therefore much of the land lies fallow. I want to restore Huntingdon to its former grandeur and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that end.”

“Except work.”

He clenched his jaw. How did he explain to someone who came from a new nation what it was to have his roots buried in centuries of history?

“Huntingdon defines who I am, who my family
has been. Certain expectations abound, which I’m determined to follow.”

“The easy way is not always the best way.”

“Believe me, Miss Pierce, no aspect of this predicament is remotely easy for me.”

She turned away, and anger roiled through him. He’d come close to baring his soul, and for what? He needed neither her respect nor her kind regard. He only required her father’s money to put to rights what his father had torn asunder.

“I’ll agree to marry you but only on one condition,” she said quietly before turning to face him.