Regency Marriages: A Compromised Lady / Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride. Elizabeth Rolls
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with her back, her lips were ramrod straight. ‘Let us hope that your sense of duty to your family has increased in the past eight years. I say no more than that I have done my best to ensure that it should be so.’ Her tone suggested that she doubted her best had been anywhere near good enough.
‘But, Aunt—’
Miss Maria Winslow flung up her hand. ‘No, Dorothea. Aberfield,’ she proclaimed in the tones of one invoking a deity, ‘is your father, and Head of the Family. It is not for me to argue with him. You will do as you are bid.’
No choice at all. With no money and no refuge, she was going to London. Thea laid her best gown, the dove-grey silk reserved for expected visitors, carefully layered in tissue paper, in the open trunk on her bed. She doubted very much that she would wear it again more than once or twice. What was adequate for the depths of rural Yorkshire would be despised in London. Thea stared at the gown. Three years she had been wearing it. Only yesterday when she had changed to greet the rector’s wife, she had put it on with loathing, longing for something pretty, something pink, instead of the never-ending grey. Now it looked safe, secure. Anonymous. All of which were about to be torn from her.
In the corner of the post-chaise rocking its way down the Great North Road towards London, Thea sat straight and stiff, a book open and forgotten on her lap. David lounged in the opposite corner reading a newspaper. Outside, northern England fell away behind them, every mile, every hoofbeat taking her closer to London …
‘I have been thinking, David.’
He looked up from the newspaper. ‘I assumed there was a reason you hadn’t spoken or turned a page in half an hour.’
She gave him a rueful smile. ‘Was I being rude?’
He grinned comfortably and laid the paper aside. ‘No. I’m your brother. It’s not technically possible for you to be rude to me.’
Despite the roiling tension, she chuckled. ‘Oh? You were used to be rude enough to me!’
‘That,’ he informed her, ‘is different. Brothers exist only to be rude to and, on occasion about, their sisters. What were you thinking?’
Slowly, she said, ‘Papa cannot want me quartered on him in London for ever—even at Arnsworth House.’
‘No,’ said David. ‘He doesn’t. He’s counting on your marriage.’
She twisted her battered old gloves between her hands. ‘It won’t happen,’ she said shortly. ‘He may force me to London, but he still can’t force me into marriage. If I do not marry by the end of the Season—surely once he realises—’
‘Do you think,’ asked David, his voice diffident, ‘that you might, our father’s machinations aside, find some fellow to care for? One who will care for you?’
Leaning forward, he reached out and covered her hand with his.
She couldn’t help it—instinctively, she jerked back, every nerve jangling at the unexpected touch.
Very slowly David sat back, his eyes shuttered.
Silence grew and stretched. When Thea spoke it was as though the words dropped into an abyss. ‘I hope to God that I don’t.’
‘Really, Richard! What were you thinking? Seventy thousand pounds! Of course it was snapped up! And after all my efforts to cultivate the connection, where were you? In Kent!’
With forced patience, Richard Blakehurst listened to the continuation of his aunt Almeria Arnsworth’s tirade. He had heard most of the countess’s diatribe before and this particular version had been running—with minor variations upon the original theme—for the past several months.
‘I wrote to you, explaining the urgency! And now the wretched girl is betrothed! To someone else.’
With a silent prayer of thanks to a benevolent deity for this circumstance, Richard settled himself as comfortably as possible in an Egyptian-style gilt chair built for a female form rather than a six-foot male and cast a considering glance at the decanters gracing a console table supported by a pair of sphinxes. His cup of tea wasn’t quite hitting the mark under these circumstances. It was weak to start with and Almeria had put sugar and what tasted like half a cup of cream in it.
No. It would be extremely bad form to dump the tea and stalk across the Dowager Countess of Arnsworth’s drawing room for the brandy. Even if she was his aunt and godmother.
Sweet, weak tea and good manners were not much to fortify a fellow against a determined assault on his bachelor status. It had been bad enough before, but the betrothal last week of a major heiress to someone other than himself, appeared to have escalated the crisis in Almeria’s view.
‘After all, Richard,’ she went on, ‘if you are not to inherit the earldom, due to Max’s selfish marriage, then you must be established in some other way and how better than—’
‘No.’ Before she could get into her stride again, he said, ‘Almeria—I do not lack for money, so I have no need to marry a fortune.’ The jibe about his twin’s marriage stung. He added, ‘And no one could be more delighted about Max’s marriage than I am. He’s happy. You must see that.’
His godmother’s glare consigned that hope to Hades and beyond.
‘He hasn’t even come up to town this year!’ she snapped.
Richard gritted his teeth. ‘No,’ he said patiently, ‘because Verity is increasing. He wanted to stay with her. Braybrook promised to keep him abreast of all that takes place in the House. He will come up if he is needed.’
Apparently knowing that her other nephew, Earl Blakehurst, was not completely neglecting his parliamentary duties didn’t help at all. Almeria’s nostrils flared.
‘Richard—you must marry. It is your duty!’
His duty? To whom? To what? Duty was reserved for heirs. He’d only just purchased his own small estate. Surely it wasn’t quite that desperate!
He voiced the question. ‘Er, Almeria—to whom do I owe this—?’
‘The earldom!’ she said, replacing her teacup in its saucer with a decided click.
Richard felt his jaw sag. The earldom? That was a bit much to swallow. With two brothers originally between himself and the blasted earldom, he’d never expected to inherit. Or wanted to. Especially not since it would mean the deaths of his brothers. Abandoning the tepid cup of syrupy tea, he limped over to the decanters and poured himself a glass of brandy. He ignored Almeria’s obvious disapproval. A little early, but with Almeria in this frame of mind he needed more fortification than a cup of tea would provide, if he were not to deal her a resounding set-down.
Reseating himself, he sipped the brandy, and said mildly, ‘Almeria, Frederick’s death was a stroke of misfortune.’ He resisted the temptation to emphasise mis. ‘You can hardly fear the same sort of accident happening to Max! Besides, he is married. And Verity is on the point of giving birth to their first child. How the devil can it be my duty to marry?’
‘It might be a girl,’ said Almeria hopefully. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t put it past that … that hussy to present him with a score of daughters!’
‘Verity,’ said Richard between clenched teeth, ‘is not a hussy.’
Almeria had the grace to look slightly abashed. ‘Oh, very well, but even so, Richard—there is no guarantee there will be an heir!’
No, there was no guarantee. Indeed, given his twin’s current state of terror over his adored countess’s perfectly normal pregnancy, it was entirely possible that he’d already sworn an oath of eternal celibacy. Not that one should dismiss the risks. Childbirth was childbirth. Risky. But still …
As if reading his thoughts, Almeria continued. ‘And childbirth—why, you never know what might happen!’