You cant cheat death, p.4
The Earl's Heiress, page 4
“Perhaps love will come in time.”
Naïve though her sister was, Bella had no wish to chasten her. “Or perhaps he will refuse my hand. I hope he does.”
“You cannot mean that!” Winnie cried, rushing to the bed and sprawling beside her.
“But I do. This is not what I want for my marriage. I long for companionship, for mutual affection—for love. Better not to marry at all than to marry without it. I wish to choose my husband, not have him chosen for me.” Her voice trembled with passion.
Winnie sighed, her mischievous gaze softening with sympathy. “I agree. I would wish the same for myself.”
A raw sound escaped Bella. “A man and woman should spend time together before they wed, so their hearts may entwine. In my imaginings, we would exchange tokens, portraits, letters of affection… take long walks together… steal a kiss.”
“You are such a hopeless romantic, Bella.”
A knock interrupted them; the refreshments had arrived.
“I shall leave you to eat,” Winnie said, rising. “I will return later to check on you.”
As her sister left, Bella wished with all her heart that she had never gone hunting. If her father and Lord Stanford struck an agreement, she would be married and her family would return to America, leaving her behind. She could see no advantage to marriage. None.
And despite her vow to remain calm, Bella buried her face in the bedclothes and wept.
CHAPTER 5
Stanford Hall
Mr. Henry Anderson was already seated across from Temple in the library. Temple could not fault the man; he was, after all, only striving to secure his daughter’s future. Still, it was ironic—only days ago, Temple had railed against the notion of marrying against his will, and now here he was, considering precisely that.
His man of affairs had already reported whispers in the village. Temple could well imagine what the scandal sheets in London might say should the matter spread:
A certain Miss A, newly arrived from foreign shores, was discovered in a most compromising state with a certain Earl of S. The drawing rooms are abuzz with speculation of a hasty wedding.
“Thank you for receiving me at such short notice, Lord Stanford,” Mr. Anderson began, his tone reverent. “I am obliged to you.”
“How fares your daughter?”
“Thank heavens, only bruised and not gravely harmed. The physician advises she remain in bed for a few days, but with rest she should recover fully.”
The knot in Temple’s gut loosened somewhat. He had been unable to banish thoughts of the young lady, silently praying she had suffered no lasting injury. “I am pleased to hear it.”
Mr. Anderson drew a steadying breath. “You are no doubt aware of why I am here. I believe we may reach an understanding. Are you willing to discuss it?”
A humorless smile curved Temple’s mouth. “By all means. But let me assure you, the situation occurred precisely as I described—upon my honor.”
Mr. Anderson cleared his throat. “I know what is expected of a gentleman when he is perceived to have acted improperly—” he stressed the word perceived—“and I am firm in the belief you did not attempt to take advantage of my daughter. The physician explained the matter of the kiss of life, but society will care nothing for such a distinction.”
Temple met his gaze steadily. “I understand what is at stake, most especially for your daughter.”
“Then you will agree it is wise that you and my daughter should marry?”
The man’s question carried an edge of nervousness.
“Permit me to know the lady’s name you ask me to wed,” Temple replied coolly.
Mr. Anderson flushed. “She is my eldest, Miss Arabella Anderson—though we call her Bella.”
A silence lingered before Temple said at last, “I am a principled man, Mr. Anderson. I will do what is required.”
Relief gleamed in the other man’s eyes. “I am gratified to hear it.”
Temple’s gaze sharpened. “Have you discussed the matter with your daughter? Does she consent?”
Mr. Anderson hesitated, then said, “My wife and I came from America for the express purpose of finding Arabella a husband. I am a wealthy man, Lord Stanford. I made my fortune in the goldfields of California before settling in Boston.”
How crass to speak of money so openly, Temple thought coldly. He had recognized the name the moment Anderson was announced. The very man his mother had been eager to meet. Temple had laughed at the coincidence, yet it seemed she had her wish after all.
“I will provide Arabella with a dowry of two hundred thousand pounds,” Anderson hurried on. “You will agree this is substantial—more than enough to restore your family’s fortunes.”
Temple stiffened. How the devil had the man discovered the extent of his family’s straits? “An impressive sum indeed. I suppose, in exchange, you would benefit from suitable connections.”
“Yes.”
“There is a scandal attached to my family name,” Temple reminded him.
“It does not matter,” Anderson said quickly. “As a countess, my daughter will do splendidly.”
Temple bit back a caustic reply. Wealth for a title—it was nothing new. Such bargains had long formed the foundation of marriage.
“This has long been the basis of many unions,” Mr. Anderson said.
It was as though the man had plucked the thought straight from Temple’s mind.
“I do not disagree,” Temple said evenly, “but I would still know your daughter’s mind. Have you asked whether she desires me as her husband?”
Mr. Anderson tugged at his neckcloth, visibly discomposed. “You seem remarkably concerned about this point.”
Temple arched a brow. “That is because Miss Arabella and I are strangers. While I consent to the principle of the marriage, your daughter should have time to adjust. The entire affair must have been a shock. From her perspective, she merely suffered a fall—and awoke to find herself promised to a man she does not know.”
A flicker of relief softened the American’s eyes. “I take your meaning, Lord Stanford.”
“Then let us have our solicitors see to the negotiations. I shall obtain a special license, but in the meantime, I will spend time with Miss Arabella—so that she may find the prospect of marriage less objectionable.”
Mr. Anderson hesitated briefly, then inclined his head. “You are a reasonable man, Lord Stanford. I agree.”
“Very well. I shall call upon you next week. By then, I trust Miss Arabella will be well recovered.”
The man smiled, rising to his feet. “Thank you, Lord Stanford. I look forward to it. I bid you good day.”
Soon after Mr. Anderson’s departure, the countess knocked lightly and entered the library. “Were you lurking in the hallway, Mother?”
“Of course not. I was waiting in the morning room upstairs and came as soon as Mr. Anderson had gone,” she replied, taking a seat opposite him.
Temple recounted the particulars of the meeting. At the mention of the dowry, the countess exclaimed.
“Good heavens! That is a fortune. Think of all you might accomplish with such a sum—even after setting aside her widow’s portion.”
Her smile softened into warmth. “This incident is nothing short of providence. Miss Anderson is precisely the American young lady I had hoped for you to meet.”
“I am aware,” he returned dryly.
“The manner of your meeting seems almost fated to me.”
When had his mother grown so fanciful?
“That may be, but Mr. Anderson understands my position.”
“As do I, Temple. I am here whenever you are ready to make the arrangements.”
“I intend to invite the Anderson family to dine soon. I will inform you once the invitation is sent.”
“Splendid. Then I shall leave you to your work.”
The haut ton would never be satisfied. A hasty wedding would rouse every whispering tongue, and speculation would only increase once society learned of the Anderson fortune. They would say he had taken advantage of a compromising incident, but he no longer cared.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
No doubt Miss Anderson’s mother had already impressed upon her daughter that she had little choice. Temple could have consented to a swift marriage, but to his own surprise, he found himself caring what Miss Arabella thought of it. He could not explain why—only that he disliked the notion of binding a woman to him without at least some measure of mutual respect and understanding.
The onus must lie with her. If Miss Anderson refused, he would not press her. He would walk away—and she could meet the consequences as she deemed best.
CHAPTER 6
One week later
Arabella was at last fully recovered, no longer aching when she walked. Yet her steps felt oddly unsteady as she watched Saville Manor stir to life, infused with the bustle of Lord Stanford’s impending arrival. One might have thought the earl was coming to stay a fortnight rather than merely to take afternoon tea.
Papa had told her she need not fear a hasty marriage, for the earl had expressed no desire to rush her. The assurance had surprised her. With such a dowry at stake, she had imagined he would hasten to secure the match, but instead, he seemed content to wait. A fortnight, perhaps longer—time enough for Mama to plan a small wedding, likely at the earl’s estate chapel under a special license.
It ought to have comforted her. Their union was not a love match, but rather a transaction of fortune for social status. She reminded herself of this firmly. Yet the knowledge did little to still the flutter in her chest at the thought of seeing him again. She could not fathom why her palms grew damp, why her breath caught at the memory of his steady green eyes.
Determined to compose herself, she had taken greater care with her appearance than she wished to admit. Her dark yellow gown was chosen with precision, for it set off the warmth of her complexion and fell gracefully to flatter her figure. She had smoothed every line, adjusted every ribbon, until she could find no fault. Still, when she glanced at her reflection, a faint flush rose in her cheeks. She realized, with no small mortification, that she wanted to appear beautiful… to him.
Banishing the thought, Arabella drew in a steadying breath and lifted her chin. Whatever else transpired between them, she would keep Lord Stanford at a distance. Handsome though he might be, he would not be permitted to touch her heart—not until she had truly discerned his character and understood why he was willing to wed her. He possessed both power and consequence enough to refuse her family, who held scarcely any connections in England. Then why had he agreed? Was it only for her wealth?
Pushing those thoughts aside, she entered the drawing room.
The staff were busy checking that everything was in its rightful place, and Mama was already sitting in the corner of the room reading a novel. The staff left, and the butler entered to announce Lord Stanford had arrived. There he was in all his magnificence, the man who would be her husband, control her fortune and her life. He seemed to fill the doorway as he stepped into the room, tall and impressive. He was dressed in a black suit with tails, a white shirt, and a waistcoat.
Arabella gazed at his strong, arresting face, and her heart began to flutter in her chest despite her resolve not to be affected by him. Becoming entangled with a gentleman too hastily, without understanding his character or his views on love, would surely invite heartache. He was younger than she had first thought, and she was grateful that he was closer to her own age.
“Welcome to Saville Manor, Lord Stanford. I trust you had a pleasant journey,” her mother said with a graceful curtsy.
He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. The weather was fair, and I found the ride most agreeable.”
Arabella hastily dipped into her own curtsy before daring to meet his gaze. His eyes, cool and assessing, lingered on her, and she felt the betraying heat rise in her cheeks when she caught the fleeting flare of appreciation within them.
“Please, have a seat, my lord,” her mother said smoothly. “I shall arrange for refreshments and leave the door ajar while you speak with Bella.”
With that, she hastened from the room. Arabella and Lord Stanford took their places in armchairs opposite one another.
Arabella’s gaze lingered on him longer than was seemly, yet she could not bring herself to care. She wanted to study him at leisure. Lord Stanford possessed a striking, self-assured bearing, his composure edged with an aloofness that set him apart. His dark brown hair, thick and untamed, only added to the impression of raw strength. He was taller than she had imagined, broader too.
His gaze swept over her in a slow, measured perusal that sent warmth rushing to her cheeks. A reckless thought seized her—was he recalling the press of his mouth against hers? Mortified, she dropped her eyes.
“How fare you, Miss Arabella? Fully recovered, I trust?”
She folded her hands primly in her lap, striving for composure. How hypocritical she must appear—her mother had so often despaired of her unladylike ways. “Thanks to you, Lord Stanford. I did not have the chance to thank you properly before. Had you not come upon me, I shudder to think what might have happened.”
“I was happy to be of service, despite…”
Her head lifted, her eyes flashing. “Despite being forced to marry me as a consequence? The American heiress who cannot hope to compare with a genteel, polished English rose?”
His brows shot up. “You’re quite direct.”
His gaze captured and held hers, unwavering. Arabella wanted to look away. She knew she should break eye contact with him, but she found it difficult. She gave up.
“Don’t you find it refreshing? One never has to be misunderstood or misinterpreted. Being direct prevents unnecessary conflicts or misunderstandings, and it promotes honesty and authenticity.”
Arabella was enlivened by the direction of their discourse, and she refused to hide her opinion. If Lord Stanford was going to wed her, he should know she would not sit and smile and fall in cheerfully with a conversation of his choosing. Her life thus far had not been about pleasing a man, and she could not imagine it being so, although she knew this was expected of her.
He appraised her with his green eyes. “I don’t disagree with you with regard to misunderstandings. However, society may not agree. The English take great pains in teaching a young lady refined deportment. Proper conduct and decorum are seen as a measure of social standing and success.”
Admirable tact. His tone said he wasn’t judging her, merely making an observation. He didn’t say she lacked these attributes but emphasized how important they were. Arabella already knew, and it made her miss home even more. She didn’t want to constantly think of rules and be judged if she fell short. At least at home, she could be herself.
“I understand one must be above reproach to be a part of your refined society; my family’s wealth alone doesn’t ensure me a place.”
If Arabella were to attend the London season, she would have no shortage of suitors. She was one of the wealthiest heiresses to grace the ballrooms of England. She suspected the haut ton would not take kindly to a faux pas, yet they would eventually forget it.
His gaze was piercing, and she struggled to ignore it. Why did he have to look so damned good? The memory of his hot breath and tongue flooded back to her, and she wondered what it would be like to kiss him properly. He would be shocked if she made such an overture. Scandalous.
“You’re being rather frank, but yes. Is that not why you are here in England? To take your place in society?”
She was to marry a duke, an earl or a marquess, but she so wished it was a man she loved and adored and that the feeling would be reciprocated.
“Yes, but I would much prefer to return to America. I will miss my home and my family, especially my brothers and sisters.”
“Tell me about your siblings.”
“My sisters are all younger, Winnie, Elsie, and Lottie, and I have two brothers, Edwin and Martin. Winnie is quite looking forward to her season, so she is just as anxious as my parents to see me wed because next it would be her turn.”
Lord Stanford chuckled. “I’m also the oldest sibling, and I have three sisters, Cordelia, Matilda, and Dorothy. My father passed away this past year. It was a hunting accident.”
“My deepest condolences, Lord Stanford. I’m sure you miss him terribly.”
Arabella reached over, took his hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. She sniffed, realizing too late how unbecoming her action was. Glancing down, they both stared at her hand for a moment before he lifted his gaze to her. His attention was riveted to her face as if he was truly seeing her for the first time. Arabella was sure tears shimmered in his green eyes before he quickly blinked them away. He was hurting, and she wanted to make it go away.
His eyes fell to her lips before he quickly looked away. Arabella shivered as if she was naked in a storm. He made her feel naked, undressing her with his eyes. She pulled her hand away and quickly glanced toward her mother, whose head remained firmly in her book. Apparently, she had not noticed.
“It is a beautiful day, Miss Arabella. Do you care for a walk in the garden?”
“I would like that very much. Mama, Lord Stanford, and I will take a turn in the garden.”
“Splendid. A lovely day for it. I will ask Gertrude to accompany you.”
Arabella and Lord Stanford waited until the lady’s maid, Gertrude, appeared before they exited the house and started walking toward the garden.
Temple smiled. Christ. Had he really just sat there like a simpleton when Miss Arabella held his hand? Those beautiful ladybug eyes were so wide and innocent; her lips parted slightly, almost an invitation. He admired her beauty in a way that he couldn’t when they first met. She was no longer wet and disheveled, and her transformation took his breath away. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips; it was all that he could do to stop himself from closing the distance between them. He imagined doing just that, lowering his head, pressing his mouth to hers and slipping his tongue inside without meeting any resistance. He wanted to know the taste of her. He imagined she would taste like fresh, juicy strawberries, but he had not stopped there. He tasted her sweet mouth over and over again, her full breasts, and her soft, moist thighs.
