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The American Heiress
A Ravenous Romance™ Once Upon a Time™ Original Publication
Roxanne Dent
The American Heiress
Copyright © 2009 by Roxanne Dent
Ravenous Romance™
100 Cummings Center
Suite 123A
Beverly, MA 01915
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-291-4
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
By the time Renata Wells arrived at Number 22 Berkeley Square, swirling yellow fog had rolled in from the sea. The driver coughed as he handed down her battered, threadbare portmanteau.
“Nasty night, Miss!”
“At least it isn’t raining,” Renata said with a shiver as she handed him her fare, further depleting her already limited financial resources.“Enjoy your visit, Miss,” the driver said, pulling up a woolen scarf to cover his mouth as he climbed onto the driver’s seat and moved off.
Renata stared at the forbidding, grey stone building. The sound of the horse’s hooves trotting down the cobblestone street was muffled by the fog and she was immediately engulfed by a flood of memories, many of which were not at all pleasant. This is no time to get maudlin, she told herself firmly as she stepped up to the imposing mahogany door with the brass lion’s head knocker and gave it several good pulls.
The door was opened by a tall, regal butler who, after taking in Renata’s diminutive form and worn, unfashionable clothes, was about to direct her to the servant’s entrance when he caught sight of her portmanteau.
“May I help you, miss?”
“Yes, thank you,” Renata replied with a slight American accent. My name is Renata Wells. Mrs. Prescott is my grandmother and I believe she’s expecting me.” To her surprise, the butler did not immediately step back to let her in, but stood there staring at her.
At five and twenty, Renata was no schoolroom miss. Usually self-possessed, she felt the onset of panic at the idea that she might not be expected after all, or even worse, that her grandmother’s letter might have been a hoax.
“Didn’t grandmother…that is…” she blushed in confusion, looking younger than her years.
“Mrs. Prescott informed the staff she had sent for you,” the butler admitted, “however, since then something has occurred which…ah, which…” Compressing his lips, Rogers straightened up as if realizing he had behaved badly. “My name is Syms, miss. If you would be so good as to accompany me to the front parlor, I’ll summon Miss Forsythe.”
“Miss Forsythe?” Renata repeated surprised.“Surely grandmother would wish to see me at once.”
“Miss Forsythe will explain everything,” Syms assured her hastily before closing the sliding doors and leaving Renata alone in the overcrowded room.
Glancing around the small room, Renata saw that it was exactly the same as when she had left twelve years ago. She had not liked it then and she didn’t like it any better for having been away.
Antique clocks decorated the fireplace mantle. Ornate china figurines and artifacts were crowded into the rosewood cabinet. The chairs and dainty settee had gold spindle legs and were covered with black and grey satin material. They were elegant, but she knew from personal experience that they were also decidedly uncomfortable.
Renata walked over to the window with the heavy velvet curtains and stared out at the deserted, fog-shrouded streets. She wondered if she had done the right thing in returning to England.
In her reticule she carried the letter from her grandmother that told her she was dying, hinting at a legacy and her wish to be reconciled with the granddaughter who had betrayed her by running off with her penniless father to America when she was thirteen.
Renata pressed her hand against the cold panes of the window and remembered how her mother had arranged it all that rainy, chilly, April day, assuring Renata and her father she would meet them in a few month’s time, knowing full well she wouldn’t last the fortnight. Jayne had been determined her daughter would escape the clutches of her own tyrannical mother, who had never stopped interfering in her life.
In defiance of Lavinia’s wishes, Jayne Prescott had found the courage to elope with Stephen Wells, who was not only penniless, but also an American.
Unfortunately for the young couple, Jayne was sickly and her husband lacked the resources to care for her. Reluctantly, they moved in with Lavinia when Renata was three. It was supposed to be a temporary situation until Jayne regained her health, but the house soon turned into a battleground between Stephen and Lavinia. The constant quarreling, sarcasm and angry outbursts only aggravated Jayne’s delicate health.
Stephen set sail for New York six months later. Jayne and Renata were to follow when Jayne was well, but Jayne became a permanent invalid. After much plotting and scheming by Lavinia, Jayne wrote to Stephen requesting a permanent separation. Renata’s parents kept in touch through secret letters for the sake of their daughter, careful to keep them from Lavinia’s prying eyes. When Renata was twelve, her grandmother had discovered the letters and summoned both her and Jayne into the back parlor.
“How dare you!” Lavinia had shouted, holding up a packet of letters Renata had sewn into the hem of her robe.“You have deliberately disobeyed me.”
“Those are my letters,” Renata retaliated, far from repentant.“Give them back.”
Lavinia threw them into the fireplace where a fire was roaring. With a cry, Renata rushed to retrieve them. Lavinia grabbed her and slapped her across the face.
“You’re a deceitful, willful child.”
“Mother, please,” Jayne pleaded.
“This is my house, and as long as Renata remains here, she will obey me.”
“He’s my father and I shall write to him if I want to!” Renata shouted back angrily.
“Do you hear that? She’s deliberately defying me.” Lavinia was outraged and rang the bell to summon two of the servants. Striding to the desk, she took out a long, official-looking document and forced it on Renata.
“What is it?” Jayne asked, taking it from Renata.
“My will. I’m leaving everything to Renata, provided she agrees never to see or write to her father again.”
“For heavens sake, Mother, Stephen is her father.”
“Make no mistake, Jayne,” Lavinia said coldly, lowering her voice, “if Renata doesn’t sign this document, I shall take you both out right now with only the clothes on your backs and leave you to fend for yourselves on the London streets.”
“I won’t do it,” Renata insisted. “You can’t make me.
In the end, Renata had acquiesced. Jayne had persuaded her tearfully that she must, for both their sakes. “Someday, you will see your father again,” she whispered. A year later she did.
It was ten p.m. and the clocks began to chime. Determined not to fall into a melancholy mood, Renata reminded herself of the times when her mother was well. There were visits to the Pantheon Bazaar, the parks, the waxworks, the puppet shows and in the summer, they had taken a house by the sea.
Caught up in her memories, Renata didn’t hear the faint knock at the door. “I…I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long,” a timid voice stammered.
Renata turned around to find a small, plain-looking woman dressed in a heavy, black, bombazine dress with a high collar. Her face was perfectly round and pale. She was nearsighted and had a tendency to blink a good deal. The absence of a cap proclaimed her a spinster.
“You must be Miss Forsythe. Rogers seemed to feel you would be able to explain things,” Renata said helpfully.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Miss Forsythe said anxiously. I am…that is…I was Mrs. Prescott’s companion.”
“Was?” Renata frowned, noting the use of the past tense.
“Yes, that is…oh dear, I’m afraid I’m the bearer of sad tidings. Mrs. Prescott passed away two days ago. It was very distressing for all of us.”
Renata felt a stab of regret at not being able to mend the rift for her mother’s sake.
“We all knew how ill she was,” Miss Forsythe prattled on nervously, “but she was always so strong, such an indomitable spirit, that one didn’t think she would ever…”
“Yes, of course,” Renata interrupted, vexed at not having the foresight to have prepared herself for this eventuality.
“I gave orders for one of the spare rooms to be made up…I do hope it’s satisfactory.”
“How thoughtful of you,” Renata replied, relief evident in her voice. “I was only just wondering if I could stay on until I obtained a position.”
Miss Forsythe blinked rapidly. “A position!”
“My father owned a newspaper in America and I helped to set the type and write the stories. Perhaps you can advise me.”
“Oh no. Dear me, no. That is…Mr. Redmond will want to see you.”
“Is Mr. Redmond a publisher?”
“Mr. Redmond is a lawyer. He asked the servants to stay on until you had arrived and things were settled. I’m sure he’ll want to see you straight away, you and Mr. Carr.”
The name of Mr. Carr did not register with Renata. Her eyes felt gritty. She stifled a yawn.
“Would you like me to order a little supper laid out in the dining room?” Miss Forsythe asked tentatively. “I’m sure Mrs. Graham could be persuaded to prepare some cold meat and bread and butter.”
“I’m really very tired,” Renata said truthfully. “But a pot of strong, hot, English tea would be lovely. And if I could trouble Mrs. Graham to send it to my room, I would be very grateful.”
Miss Forsythe smiled shyly. “I’m sure that can be arranged,” she agreed.
The room that had been made up for her turned out to be the same one Renata’s mother had used while she lived there. It had been redecorated after she died and now bore no trace of her occupancy.
Renata shut the door and looked around. A small fire had been started in the grate but the room was still chilly and damp. There was beige and gold wallpaper on the walls, which were decorated with insipid pictures of rural scenes. On a small stand was a copper pitcher of water and a basin. Above it was a mirror. Renata’s portmanteau had already been brought up and her meager possessions had been shaken out and neatly put away.
Walking to the washstand, she began the process of preparing herself for bed. After washing her face, she removed the pins from her brown hair. She shook it out and began brushing it, gazing at her reflection critically. Her rather indifferent hazel eyes were more alert and her face was no longer moist and stained with grime from her journey.
When she lived here, Lavinia had often reminded Renata that she was not a beauty like her mother and Renata was forced to acknowledge the truth of the remark. At five feet two, she knew she was too short to be considered regal and although there was nothing wrong with her figure or complexion, no one would ever call her ethereal, she thought with amusement.
All the same, there was much Renata did not see. Her silky brown hair possessed many red and gold highlights and her hazel eyes were far from ordinary. In fact, they were her most remarkable feature; they were large, with thick, dark lashes, and had a marked tendency to turn green when she was angry or excited. While her lips were too full to be fashionable, they did turn up at the corners as though she were secretly laughing at some amusing anecdote.
The handsome face of James Parrish came unbidden to her mind. Renata had other suitors when her father was alive, but she couldn’t even remember their names. James had stolen her heart. He often said her lips were meant to be kissed, and when they were alone together, he frequently demonstrated just how kissable and irresistible they were.
On her twentieth birthday, he had given her a gold locket and told her he loved her, but in the end, James had broken her heart. Renata frowned, putting down the brush, trying to banish all thoughts of James and his betrayal from her mind.
Renata rose at the knock on the door, grateful for the distraction. “Come in.”
Miss Forsythe appeared carrying a tea tray with buttered toast and jam. “I brought it myself. I wanted to be sure the tea was hot. I do so like hot tea myself.”
“How kind you are,” Renata said taking the tray from her. “I’m quite certain Grandmother never appreciated you enough.”
Miss Forsythe turned pink. “No, no. She was kindness itself.”
Renata smiled. Lavinia had been many things, but kind did not come to mind.
“Mr. Redmond and Mr. Carr are arriving at eleven. Unless you feel eleven is too early,” Miss Forsythe added anxiously.
“Eleven is decadently late,” Renata assured her as she showed her out. Shutting the door, Renata slipped on her warmest nightgown and robe and sipped her tea in bed, wondering if her grandmother had left her anything. She recalled Lavinia’s stern voice and unforgiving nature and decided the possibility was very slim. She hoped the lawyer would allow her to stay in her grandmother’s house until she could secure some sort of employment.
Renata had no illusions about why she had been invited. Lavinia had wanted to control everyone around her and she thought she could do it with the lure of her considerable fortune now that Renata’s father was dead and she needed money.
She had never suspected Renata had taken her up on the invitation out of a genuine desire to fulfill a deathbed promise to her mother.
But Renata knew she was too much her father’s daughter to have put up with Lavinia’s bullying and threats for long. She would never have allowed Lavinia to control her as Jayne had. Renata’s own plans included securing a position and being independent. It was the only way a woman could be truly happy.
Jayne had been dependent on her mother and it had ruined her marriage and wrecked her health. Renata had been dependent on her father, who though a kind and loving man, had absolutely no common sense where money was concerned. Upon his death, Renata had no choice but to sell the newspaper and all their possessions to pay off their creditors, leaving her very little to live on.
It was when Renata was at her weakest, most vulnerable, that James’s true nature had revealed itself.
As though it were yesterday, she recalled their last painful encounter in her home after everyone had paid their respects to her father and departed. Financial reality had forced her to dismiss the one remaining servant, so they were alone in the house.
James’s strong arms pulled her to him. She felt safe and leaned into him, trying not to cry, grateful for his strength and the knowledge that they would soon wed.
“You needn’t worry about the future, sweetheart,” James whispered in her ear. “I’ll see that you’re taken care of. I’ve already purchased a house downtown. You’ll have carte blanche to decorate it any way you wish.”
Renata pulled away puzzled. “Downtown? But your house on Gramercy Park is a fine one.”
James flushed. “You can’t stay there.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You love me, don’t you?” he demanded.
“Of course I do.”
James kissed her then, passionately and far more ardently than before, his hands moving over her body, arousing her as he always did. But she suddenly pulled away, a growing suspicion making her able to resist his advances.
“Now that my father is dead, we are to be married. Are we not?” she asked in a quavering voice as she studied his face.
James couldn’t look at her and in that moment she knew. He had no intention of making her his wife. He wanted her to be his mistress hidden away somewhere downtown.
Renata felt sick. All this time James had never truly loved her. Shaking with shame and grief, feeling she would rather die than let him see how he had hurt her, Renata moved out of his reach. Holding her head up, she said in as steady a voice as she could muster, “It’s late. You’d best leave.”
“Think, Renata. You’re all alone. There’s no one to protect you. You have little money.”
“I can take care of myself. But thank you for your concern, James,” Renata said bitterly.
James had the grace to flush. “Damn it, Renata, as independent and sophisticated as you imagine yourself to be, you’re still naïve in worldy matters.. Your father did you a disservice by permitting you to work beside him like a man. No paper will have you. At least I care for you and want the best for you.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Renata said scornfully.
James grabbed her arm and pulled her close, pinning her arms behind her, overriding her objections. “You know if it were possible I would marry you.”
“Why isn’t it possible?” Renata challenged.
“My family won’t permit it.”
“Why not? My father was a gentleman. We pledged our love. You took liberties.”
“My family is old-fashioned. They were shocked when they learned you worked beside other men. They see you as too forward. In their eyes, your reputation isn’t what it should be. Without a dowry, they refuse to consider it and I’m dependent on them. Why not be together as we wish?”
“If you love me as you say you do, you would defy them,” Renata shouted, fighting back tears.
“Be reasonable,” James murmured as he carefully undid the hooks on her dress and loosed her stays. She fought him then, stamping on his foot and biting him, but he laughed at her efforts and as she continued to struggle, her clothes began to rip, which only seemed to arouse him further.
Now really frightened, Renata pretended to succumb to a kiss and when he relaxed his hold, grabbed a pewter pitcher and hit him over the head. He fell to the worn carpet muttering an oath as Renata stood over him.
“If you dare to come here again, I’ll shoot you with Father’s gun,” Renata warned.
James slowly stood up on unsteady feet, holding his bloody head. “No one will want to marry you,” Renata. No one,” he said coldly. “In six months you’ll come back to me singing a different tune but by then, I might not be so willing to take you back.”
Renata threw a vase at him and he ducked before walking out, slamming the door behind him, leaving her alone with her grief.
James had been right. No one offered her a job or asked for her hand in marriage, not that she would have accepted.
Other, less honorable offers would have come if Renata had encouraged them, but she refused to be someone’s mistress. Her meager monthly funds steadily declined. It was fortunate indeed her grandmother had sent her the money to come to England.
The hot tea warmed and soothed her. She began to feel the effects of her long journey as her eyes began to close. Blowing out the candle, she lay back underneath the goosedown comforter. Despite the memories of James’s treachery and her uncertain future, Renata was fast asleep in minutes.
Chapter Two
Aurora, Countess of Kenyon alighted from her smart town coach, drawn by two matching bays with glittering silver harnesses, and strode up to the front door of number 14 Grosvenor Place.
She was wearing a royal blue, velvet pelisse adorned by swans’ down and a trimmed bonnet in matching blue velvet. The brilliant blue set off the deeper blue of her eyes and her flaxen hair.
That morning, she had chosen to wear the sapphire and diamond earrings, a present along with a matching necklace from her husband the Earl on the occasion of their first anniversary.
With her long Stratford nose and slightly protuberant eyes, Aurora had never been a beauty. Her pedigree as a Stratford, however, along with a generous dowry and an amiable nature, had assured her of success. After only one season, she had married the Earl of Kenyon, fifteen years her senior, extremely wealthy and equally amiable.
Before Aurora reached the front door, an elderly butler opened it and smiled in genuine pleasure. “Good morning, Miss Aurora. It’s good to see you again. I hope everything is well with his Grace and the children.”
“Thank you, Edwards. Everyone is quite well. Is His Lordship up yet?” she inquired cheerfully, although she was unable to entirely dispel the note of worry from her voice as she handed him her bonnet, along with a set of chinchilla furs; another present from her husband.
“His lordship is awake but not yet suitably attired to receive callers,” he replied primly. The truth was that Lord Stratford had arrived home in the wee hours of the morning and was at the moment sipping black coffee and nursing an aching head.
“In that case, I shall wait for him in the drawing room. If you would be so good as to send in some tea, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“Certainly, my lady,” Edwards replied promptly even though his lordship had issued strict instructions about not receiving callers until late afternoon.
Edwards’ affection and admiration for Aurora had not dimmed over the years and he did what he could to oblige her, something he would not have done for their elder brother, the Duke of Pembroke, whose selfishness and willfulness he deplored.
As Edwards slowly climbed the stairs, he wondered what was amiss. Having been in service to the Stratfords since Aurora was in leading strings, he had not failed to detect the signs of distress she had tried to hide.
It was unusual for his lordship’s sister to be upset about anything. She had never been one of those hysterical females who fall into a fit of the vapors at the slightest provocation. He remembered with relief she had said her family was well, so it couldn’t be illness.
As Edwards knocked on Lord Stratford’s bedroom door before entering, he suddenly wondered if her visit had anything to do with his lordship’s recent behavior. Nights spent in gaming hells and days spent in the perfumed boudoirs of loose women were bound to lead to disaster sooner or later.
Lord Ian Michael Gaylord Stratford Cornwall did not keep his sister waiting long. He arrived before she had finished her second cup of tea and the last of the bread, butter and strawberry jam.
Lines of last night’s dissipation were only faintly visible about his eyes. At five and thirty, he looked much as he had at five and twenty. Lord Stratford was over six feet tall, with long legs, slender, graceful hands and wide shoulders.
His high cheekbones, aristocratic Stratford nose and intelligent eyes that tended more toward a cool grey than blue, gave him an unapproachable look. Until, that is, one noticed his lazy good humor. In both looks and temperament, he took after his mother, as did Aurora. His hair was the color of sun-bleached wheat and he wore it brushed straight back from a high forehead. His mouth was his one surprising feature. It was full and rather sensual.
It was true Lord Stratford could not compare in looks to his brother Russell, the Duke of Pembroke, affectionately known as Pompey, whose golden locks, deep blue eyes and tanned complexion had set many a female heart a fluttering, but Ian did not begrudge his brother his good looks. Along with it went their father’s selfish, arrogant disposition and fits of bad temper.
Lord Stratford’s clothes were made by the finest tailors and consisted of rich materials, adorned with a great quantity of heavy gold and silver lacing.
This morning, he had on a chocolate brown velvet coat and fawn satin breeches. The coat was open to display a waistcoat embroidered in an intricate Chinese pattern of flowers and birds. A large diamond pin was stuck in the cascade of lace at his throat and his stockings were of silk, although not adorned by designs of clocks, flowers or wild animals.
Although he frequented Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and in the matter of horses, was rumored to be able to take a fly off a leader’s ear, his interest in other sports was negligible, which automatically disqualified him as a Corinthian. The scented coats, fancy lacings and quizzing glass proclaimed him a dandy, and yet he stopped short of chicken skin fans and painted faces.
Wealthy, a respected member of the ton, easygoing and intelligent, he was able to discourse on a multitude of subjects with a variety of diverse people, making him a much sought-after guest by ambitious hostesses. He was also a graceful dancer and his manners were exemplary.
Since he could be relied on to make even the most painfully shy, unattractive girl feel at her ease and appear her best, he was also in great demand at country dances, balls, route parties and soirees. Even Almacks Assembly Rooms, that hallmark of respectability and propriety, eagerly welcomed him into its midst, although by now, even the most determined matchmaking mamas had given up hope of his forgoing his bachelor existence for marriage.
“What the deuce have you been saying to Edwards to put him into such a censorious mood?” Ian drawled as he joined his sister.
Aurora stared. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean?” she replied in astonishment. “I said nothing out of the commonplace.”
“Well no matter,” Ian muttered, wincing slightly as he eased into the chair next to her.
“Would you like some tea?” Aurora inquired.
Holding his quizzing glass up he eyed the silver tea set with repugnance. “You know how I hate the stuff. I ordered a pot of coffee and some ham and cheese. I’m actually beginning to feel as if I could swallow food again.”
“Had a bad night?” Aurora asked sympathetically.
“I spent the better half of the evening at Cribbs Parlor, and then went on the Red Horse and the Straw Man. Needless to say, I partook of a good deal of wine and brandy in all three establishments.”
“How much did you lose?” Aurora inquired curiously.
“I had a run of bad luck but by the time I quit, I made back the bulk of what I’d lost.”
“You were always lucky at cards,” she sighed. The secret of Ian’s success was that he could stop playing at any time if he felt he’d lost too much, whereas once Aurora was deep in play, she couldn’t stop and frequently ran over the generous monthly allowance dear Shelby gave her. Usually he was most understanding, but lately he’d been quite cross. And really, she couldn’t blame him.
“Lucky in cards, unlucky in love,” Ian quipped.
Aurora eyed her brother over the rim of her teacup. She wondered if she had imagined it or if there was an undertone of bitterness in the remark. Since the coffee, platters of ham, cheese, freshly baked bread and dishes of butter arrived, she chatted on about mundane affairs until the servants laid the table and Ian dismissed them.
“The latest on dit” she said casually “is that you are thinking of taking up with the beauteous Helen Marcy. If I were you, I wouldn’t.”
Ian poured himself a cup of coffee and inhaled its fragrant aroma. Leaning back, he crossed his legs and slowly sipped it. “You’re not supposed to know such women exist my dear, much less discuss them with me.”
“Don’t be Gothic,” she said flushing. “I’m an old married woman of twenty-eight.”
“All the same, I doubt if your husband would approve of our conversation.”
“Shelby is dreadfully old-fashioned about such matters and I’m only telling you for your own good. Helen Marcy is heartless and devoid of all sensibility. If you take her on she’ll ruin you as she did Edington.”
“I am not Edington.”
“The poor man doted on her and kept his family in rags so he could lavish her with expensive trinkets,” she continued. “And when he needed to borrow back a mere five thousand pounds to keep his family from debtor’s prison, she laughed in his face.”
“It isn’t sporting to borrow from one’s mistress,” Ian murmured apologetically.
“If it wasn’t for his wife’s uncle dying and leaving them twenty thousand pounds, he would have blown his brains out,” she exclaimed indignantly.
“Blowing his brains out would hardly have benefitted his distressed family,” Ian pointed out.
“In the end, the experience cured him of her beastly influence,” Aurora admitted “however…”
“…however, Edington has taken up with a new girl,” Ian said in a bored voice. “I believe she’s a dancer. In a year or two hence he will no doubt be in the very same position he was with Helen. His father was the same.”
“It’s perfectly horrid. Such women are ruinous,” Aurora expostulated with some heat.
“No more ruinous then to be infected with gambling fever,” he said gently.
“Very well, have it your way then,” she bristled.
“You must forgive me, my dear, for leading you on a bit. I have no intention of taking another mistress. The divine Camilla cured me.” Since he was in the process of piling meat and cheese on bread, he didn’t see the look of distress and guilt on Aurora’s face. “In fact, at the moment my intentions lay in quite another quarter.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You and Pompey have been urging me to marry and settle down for years, have you not?” he inquired lightly.
Aurora was stunned. “Well, naturally. I mean, that’s wonderful news, Ian but…but who is she? I’ve heard nothing, not a word.”
“You know her,” he murmured as he poured another cup of coffee.
“For heaven’s sake don’t tease me.”
“It’s Eleanor,” he said simply.
“You can’t mean Eleanor Montrose,” Aurora said in a tone of voice that was far from pleased.
“Why ever not? Eleanor’s not an antidote. She’s respectable and her estate borders on my own. We’ve known one another for years. What could be more perfect?” he said dryly.
“I do hope this is all a hum because Eleanor, for all her beauty, is a cold fish.”
“Something I am reputed to be as well.”
“But my dear, in your case, it isn’t at all true,” she protested. “You’re much too romantic and passionate for a woman like Eleanor. And no matter how many times you tell me you love her I shan’t believe it.”
“I don’t believe I mentioned love. Eleanor is eminently suitable. With Quimby Hall falling down and a rake for a father, she needs me. In return for my name and a generous marriage settlement, she will act at my hostess, produce heirs and tactfully ignore my other ah…pastimes.”
“What perfect drivel.” Aurora was shocked. “How far has this farrago gone? Have you actually asked her to marry you?”
“I had thought to do so this very morning after I see my lawyers.”
“For heaven’s sake, wait until after the season is over. Marriages of the sort you describe only work for certain kinds of people. I can see how it might work for Eleanor, but you aren’t cut from the same cloth, no matter what you say. And once you are married, there’s the difficulty and scandal of divorce, not that your pride would ever allow you to agree to one under any condition.”
“Precisely my point. Eleanor’s cold nature has its decided advantages. There would be no fear of being cuckold by another fellow when my back was turned,” he said bitterly. “Since money and position are the only things that truly arouse her, I feel I am relatively safe on that score.”
“But…but what about love?” Aurora stammered.
“In marriage, reciprocal love is all but extinct, and frequently doesn’t last out the first year. But love is not something Eleanor expects or wants. Respect, position, money and courtesy are all things I am more than willing to bestow on her.”
“You have completely taken leave of your senses, but if you must marry her, don’t rush into it. Wait at least one more season before committing yourself.”
“Very well,” he agreed, moved by her distress. “But I fail to see what one season more or less will do.”
“You never know,” she said relieved.
“If you mean by that cryptic statement that I may fall desperately in love in one season and change my mind about marrying Eleanor, you’re in for a severe disappointment. A sensible arrangement is what I want.”
Aurora tried not to show how upset she was by their conversation. Her brother might look cold and aloof, but looks were deceiving.
When he was twenty-one, Ian had fallen deeply in love with an older, married woman. Their father had very properly put a stop to it by buying the woman off. For the next decade, Ian flirted with first one beauty and then another, without seriously attaching himself.
In his thirty-first year, Ian had surprised his family and society by falling head over heels for Fanny, a half-French girl. She was only nineteen, charming and totally captivated him. He did not see she was marrying him for his money until one ghastly night at Lord Veering’s Ball.
Aurora and Ian had gone looking for Fanny, only to find her on the terrace wrapped in a tight embrace with her true love, a man as penniless as she. Fanny was softly weeping on his shoulder, confessing she still loved him but her family was forcing her to marry Lord Stratford for financial reasons.
Aurora shuddered. She would always remember the look of shock on Ian’s face followed by the anger and withdrawal. The engagement was officially broken off by the girl a week later but Aurora suspected it had been engineered by Ian. She heard later, much to her amazement, that her brother had actually bought his penniless rival a commission in the army so the lovers could afford to marry.
Ian was never the same afterward. He continued to flirt with eligible girls and appeared as amiable as ever, but made no serious attachments. Instead, he began to take on first one and then another expensive and beautiful mistress until her loyalties began to waver, whereupon he would gallantly present her with a generous parting gift and no hard feelings. For even with his mistresses, Ian couldn’t bear a rival.