Autumn Rain (3 page)

Finally, she forced herself to listen to the steady, calming rhythm of the rain, thinking wistfully of the safety of Miss Roberts's academy. But when at last she drifted toward sleep, it was the Earl of Longford's face she saw—and the black eyes and twisted smile of a man called Lucifer still mocked her. As she crossed her arms over her breasts, she could still feel the strength of his body against hers, and she could not help wondering what he would have done to her had she not broken away from his embrace.

CHAPTER 2

Edgehill: October 31, 1807

Her heart sank when she saw him. For a moment, she clutched the doorknob for support and tried not to feel sick.

"Come in—come in," her father prompted impatiently. "Lord Kingsley wishes to gain your acquaintance." He turned to the thin, elderly man who stood by the fireplace, and he smiled proudly. "Is she not as I told you, my lord?"

The old gentleman leaned on his ebony cane, then moved rather deliberately to face her. He'd thought that Thomas Ashton in his eagerness for money had exaggerated, but he hadn't. He studied her silently, his face closed to his thoughts, lest he be taken in the bargain.

The girl before him was exceptionally pretty—slender but full-breasted, with the fine facial bones that gave promise of true beauty. And those eyes. He would have taken her for them alone, for he could not remember ever seeing the color before. They were, he reflected, a light, almost golden brown that reminded him of topazes. And that glorious red hair. But for all that she was precisely what he required, he continued to regard her shrewdly, wondering what Ashton would demand for her. Finally, he asked abruptly, "How old did you say she was?"

"Fifteen, but as you can see, she has grown beyond her years."

"Does she have any accomplishments other than her looks?"

"Tell him what you can do, Nell," her father urged. "Tell him what I paid for at the young ladies' seminary."

She did not want to meet the old man's eyes. Looking downward, she mumbled, "I was adequate in Latin and fair in Greek, my lord. But I excelled in literature and geometry."

Fearing Kingsley would think her a bluestocking, Thomas Ashton hastened to correct the impression. "Not that, puss—tell him how you can do the fashionable things!"

Elinor cast about in her mind for the means to discourage Lord Kingsley's interest. "Well, my watercolors were indifferent, and my music uninspired, but—"

"She's overmodest, my lord." Favoring his eldest with baleful eye, her father snapped, "I'd have you tell the truth, missy! None of this deprecation, you hear? Tell him how I have paid extra for a dancing master! Aye, and how you have excelled in your needlework! And how—"

"I am not interested in needlework," Kingsley interrupted him. His gaze still on the young girl before him, the old man reached to lift a lock of her hair from her shoulder. His fingers massaged it as though he studied the texture, then he let it slip through his fingers. "Does she use henna?" he wondered.

Thinking that perhaps Kingsley did not favor his daughter's red hair, her father hastened to answer, "No, but no doubt the color will change when she is older."

"It would be a pity if it did." The elderly baron leaned closer, peering intently into her averted face. When she would not look at him, he lifted her chin with one slender, bony finger. "Does she ever throw spots?"

"She is not given to freckles," Ashton assured him.

"I can see that," the other man remarked dryly. "But sometimes young girls get blemishes on otherwise impeccable skin."

"Never."

"I broke out last year," Elinor reminded him.

"It was the measles, my lord. Indeed, but her childhood complaints are behind her."

The finger dropped from her chin to her arm, tracing her arm through the muslin sleeve to her elbow, sending a shiver of revulsion through her. "She appears in good health."

"She is not given to megrims—are you, Nell?" Her father's manner indicated that even if she were consumptive, she had best not dare admit it. "Tell him how you have never had the headache."

"I had one last year," she remembered.

"It was with the measles," he growled at her through clenched teeth. Turning again to Baron Kingsley, his manner changed. "Well, now that you have seen her, shall we speak frankly on the matter?" He waited, his breath seemingly abated, hoping against hope that the old man found her pleasing.

Kingsley continued to ignore him. His bony hand moved from her arm to her breast, and when she recoiled, he squeezed it. As blood rushed to her face, she pulled away, and before either of them could stop her, she ran from the room.

"Nell!" her father shouted angrily after her.

"Let her go," she heard Lord Kingsley tell him. "The child will get over her modesty. For now, I should rather have her meek than bold."

"I can assure you she has been sheltered, my lord," her father said. "Though I cannot think what you were about," he added a trifle stiffly. "It's beyond the bounds, sir. You'll give her a distaste of you."

The old man looked toward the open door, then dropped into a chair, sighing regretfully. "I did not mean to frighten the child, but there are young girls who resort to padding there, I am told."

"Well, you can see she is whole," Ashton insisted, trying to press him. "And if you do not want her, there is Langworthy..." He let his voice trail off, hoping he'd hooked Kingsley with the bait.

But the old man had not climbed from the trades by being outwitted. He sat there, mentally reviewing the girl, deciding what he would offer. She was young, lovely, malleable, and she would give him the consequence that his money alone could not buy him. Moreover, she could be made into the perfect display of his wealth. His only regret was that she was merely a baron's daughter, but he would not repine overlong on that.

"Well, my lord—?" Ashton persisted.

Tears of anger and humiliation stung Elinor's eyes, nearly blinding her. At the bottom of the stairs, she caught at the newel post, and too heartsick to go farther, she sank to sit on one of the treads. Waves of nausea swept over her as she listened while her father bargained her future away. Every fiber of her being seemed to revolt—it wasn't right—it wasn't fair! Surely God would not let him do it.

But in the salon, Thomas Ashton faced Arthur Kingsley, hating what he did, but knowing it had to be done. "I'd have twenty-five thousand in settlements, my lord."

"Preposterous!" the old man snorted. "I could get a duke's daughter for that, sir!"

"I offer you that rarest of gems," she heard her papa declare stiffly. "She will grow into a remarkable beauty— indeed, but she already shows promise of it."

"I should rather count her an uncut stone," Kingsley countered. "Each facet must be carefully done and polished before she shows to advantage."

"Still—"

"Ten thousand."

"I cannot allow it. I have need of more than that."

"And I had hoped for higher birth," the old man snapped.

"There have been Ashtons at Edgehill for four centuries, sir! Can you say the same for your family?" her father demanded angrily. "Of course you cannot! And naught's wrong with her birth—her mother is a Conniston!" Then, perceiving that perhaps the other baron was sensitive about the lateness of his title, Thomas Ashton backed off to try another tack. "There's not a man breathing as will not envy you for my Nell, Kingsley. And if she were to bear a child for you—"

The elderly baron cut him short. "I have an heir. My late son left a boy."

"Still—"

The old man's eyes narrowed shrewdly as he regarded Ashton. Very deliberately, he took out an enameled snuffbox, opened it, and held it out. "Would you take a pinch? It's excellent sort—East Indian, in fact."

"Thank you—no."

Kingsley snapped the box shut and returned it to his coat pocket. "A pity. Like everything else I have, it's the best I can obtain." For a moment, his blue eyes met Thomas Ashton's. "Tell me, my lord—and I shall expect you to be quite straightforward about it—how much do you owe?"

"What are you doing eavesdropping on Papa, Nell?" the girl whispered behind her.

"Shhh."

"I'll tell him."

"Be still. I am praying." Elinor leaned forward, closing her eyes tightly, and her lips moved fervently, silently, beseeching the Almighty to deliver her from the old man. Twelve-year-old Charlotte Ashton plopped down on the stairs next to Elinor.

"Whatever for?"

"Papa is trying to sell me to Baron Kingsley," the elder girl answered through clenched teeth. "I'd not do it. Now
will
you cease prattling?"

"How diverting," Charlotte murmured. "Is he rich and handsome?"

"He's
old!"
Nell retorted. "Be quiet."

Thomas Ashton appeared to be considering the question still, then he finally cleared his throat. "That, sir, is none of your affair."

"Then the ten thousand is my last offer," Kingsley told him coldly. "We are wasting our time."

"Dash it, sir—ten thousand will not do it!"

"Your debts, Ashton."

Again there was a pregnant silence, then the girls heard their father admit, "It will take sixteen thousand in the least, and I should like to have enough beyond that I may settle something on my other daughters. And of course I should expect—"

"It's never wise to expect another man's money. How do I know you will not come to this pass again?"

"I assure you—"

"A gamester's word is no better than that of an opium eater—both will lie to satisfy their habits," Kingsley responded acidly. "And I'd have my wife's family do me credit."

Hope rose in Elinor's breast, then was dashed almost immediately when the old man added, "But I am not adverse to extending you an allowance, Ashton—shall we say something in the area of two thousand per year?— and the clearance of your current debts, of course. The latter I will settle once and once only, you understand."

The younger baron had hoped for more, and he stalled, thinking perhaps to gain a little more. But Kingsley was impatient. "It will not support further gaming, but it's all I mean to pay, so you may accept it or we are done. A little economy and you can live quite comfortably on that, Thomas."

"The other girls—"

"I should not expect my wife's relations to come to London as paupers, but"—the old man paused, fixing Ashton with his gaze—"but I shall merely frank their entry into society when the time comes."

"Dash it, but—they cannot make matches without money!"

"You may give it out that I mean to settle decent sums on them—upon their marriages, of course."

"How much?"

"Shall we say five thousand? That ought to gain them respectable offers."

"The money—"

"The money goes to their husbands."

It was an utterly demeaning arrangement, but knowing that he faced complete disgrace without Kingsley's money, Ashton exhaled heavily and capitulated. "I would like the matter expedited. I'd have my creditors know they are to be paid."

"Send them announcements of the wedding." The old man leaned forward and favored Thomas Ashton with a thin smile. "I shall apply directly to the archbishop for a special license. Shall we say the sixteenth of December at Stoneleigh? It will allow me to have the house put in order for her by then."

"Stoneleigh? I'd thought Edgehill—"

"I do not travel much in winter, sir."

"It's soon. I'd thought to give her more time—she is but fifteen, and—well, once my creditors are told, there is no need for unseemly haste in the matter. Perhaps when she is sixteen—"

"I do not mind that she is young, Ashton—quite the contrary," the elderly baron countered. "Lady Kingsley will be precisely what I choose to make her."

"Still—"

"The sixteenth," Kingsley declared flatly. "I shall be giving a country party for her directly after the first of the year, where I may observe how she goes on in company." His gaze met Thomas Ashton's as he added meaningfully, "You are welcome to extend invitations to those who hold your most pressing vouchers, of course." He smiled thinly. "That should delay any foreclosures, I believe."

"I should not expect many to travel to Cornwall."

"The weather is milder there than here." Kingsley rose and leaned on the narrow ebony cane. "But I leave it to you to determine whom to tell. I shall, however, expect a rather complete accounting of your indebtedness for my solicitor before the settlements are drawn."

"Of course. And the allowance?"

"The allowance will commence upon the marriage, Ashton. Not one day sooner."

"You will frank the wedding?"

"As it's to be a small affair—I do not think any but her family would wish to be present—I cannot expect the expense to be great, but yes, I will." Balancing his weight on one hand, the old man reached into his coat and drew out a slim leather folder. Using his thumb, he counted out a number of crisp banknotes. "Here is five hundred pounds for the girl. See that you use it to purchase her some decent gowns before she comes to Stoneleigh."

"You are most generous, my lord."

"No insipid colors, mind you—and no stinting. And, as in the case of the other, I shall expect an accounting of every farthing. I'd see it expended on the girl and nothing else."

Trying not to betray his chagrin, Thomas Ashton bowed slightly. "It will, of course, be as you wish."

"See that it is. I did not gain my wealth by consorting with fools, sir."

"He's coming out!" Charlotte hissed excitedly. But as the black-coated figure moved slowly into the hall, and she could see his narrow, stooped shoulders, she gasped, "Lud—is that Kingsley, Nell?"

"Yes."

Instinctively, the younger girl clasped her sister's hand for comfort. The old man looked up, seeing them, and his thin mouth curved into another smile. He raised his cane to Nell. "You must not fear me, my dear, for I mean to treat you well. Indeed, but once you are at Stoneleigh, you shall want for nothing."

Elinor pulled away from her sister, and, covering her mouth, ran up the stairs. She did not stop until she reached the safety of her room, and then she was heartily sick in the washbasin. She retched violently, bringing up the contents of her nuncheon, until there was nothing left. Finally, she flung herself facedown onto her bed and cried.

"Here now, missy—what's this?" her papa asked from the door.

"I won't wed him," came the muffled reply. "I won't!"

He deeply regretted what he had done, and he felt for her, but he had to make her understand. "Aye, you will, Nell."

"I'd rather die!"