Catch a Falling Heiress: An American Heiress in London (4 page)

Marry Frederick? She’d never considered the possibility, not for years, but she considered it now as she smiled and nodded and renewed acquaintance with friends. She’d been infatuated with him as a girl, but that didn’t really count for much now. Besides, every girl she knew had been infatuated with Frederick at one time or another. And why not?

He was handsome, charming, a true sportsman. He owned racehorses that ran at Saratoga and yachts that he sailed with expert skill. He was a successful investment banker, and he came from one of New York’s oldest, finest families.

Marry Frederick?

She tried to envision it, and when she did, an agreeable future stretched before her—a modest but comfortable brownstone west of the park to start, and a small cottage here. As Frederick became even more successful, they might move to a larger home closer to their parents on Madison Avenue. Like many other couples they knew, they would winter in New York, take a brief trip to Paris in the spring, then come here for the summer. She would have all the picnics and clambakes and Newport summers she could want with a man she knew and understood, a man who came from the same world she did and wanted the same things she did, a man who cared for her, not her money, a man of whom she was genuinely fond.

Fond.

She grimaced a bit at the word, remembering several of the men in London who had described their feelings for her in such a way. Her affection for Frederick went deeper than that, of course, for she’d known him all her life. And was romantic passion any better a guarantee of happiness than the affection she felt for Frederick? She thought of Conrath, and she decided it was not.

“Linnet?” Her mother’s voice, low but urgent, called to her, and she came out of her reverie with a start. She glanced around and realized the object of her thoughts had disappeared.

“What happened to Frederick?” she asked, as her mother bustled over to her side. “He was talking to you a moment ago.”

“Frederick?” Helen Holland’s round face creased into a bewildered frown, showing that although that particular man might be dominating Linnet’s thoughts, her parent’s mind was on something else altogether. “He’s wandered off somewhere,” she added, waving a hand toward the French doors onto the terrace. “Never mind Frederick. We’ve something much more important to discuss.” She pulled her daughter slightly away from the group of her friends. “Linnet, there are three British peers here tonight.”

Linnet groaned. “Oh, Mother, not again.”

Helen, of course, ignored this admonishment. “To think, after doing London with no success, you have another chance. Look over there.” When Linnet didn’t move, Helen gave an impatient sigh, put an arm around her shoulders, and turned her toward the three men Frederick had already pointed out to her, and she could only thank heaven that at this moment none of them were looking in her direction. “Don’t stare, of course,” her mother murmured in her ear, “but aren’t they handsome?”

“For goodness’ sake!” Without bothering to consider the question, Linnet shrugged to dislodge her mother’s arm from around her shoulders, then turned to face her. “I don’t want to marry a British lord. How many times must I say it?”

Helen’s face creased again, this time with disapproval. “That is a most unladylike tone,” she said with injured dignity. “The gentlemen are standing a dozen feet away at most, and if they heard you speaking to me this way, they might decide you would not suit as a peeress and dismiss you from consideration.”

“If so, then I hope they would also believe I mean what I say and set their sights elsewhere.”

“And if they do, where will you be?” Helen lifted a hand to indicate the assemblage around them. “You want to marry one of our own, but you’ve known these men all your life, and love hasn’t bloomed for you with any of them. Will it ever? You’re twenty-one, Linnet, and time is going by. Most of your friends are already married. Another year, maybe two, and you’ll be an old maid. Is that what you want?”

Linnet lowered her head, pressing one gloved hand to her forehead. She’d hoped that in coming home, this topic would be laid to rest, at least for a while, but now she realized her mother’s relentless campaign to marry her off would never stop, not until she’d walked down the aisle and said her vows.

“Now, about these three gentlemen,” Helen resumed, mistaking Linnet’s silence for acquiescence, “they are staying here at The Tides, so Mrs. Dewey was able to tell me all about them. The blond one is quite good-looking, don’t you think?”

Linnet didn’t bother to lift her head. Her mother didn’t notice.

“He’s the Earl of Hayward,” Helen chirped on, “son of the Marquess of Wetherford. Still, I’m not sure he’ll do for you.”

Linnet didn’t ask why, but, of course, she didn’t have to.

“He’s shorter than you, and it’s never good for a man to be shorter than his wife. A pity, for he has the highest rank. Still,” Helen added, her voice brightening, “the other two are taller, and every bit as good-looking. The brown-haired one is Viscount Somerton, the only son of Earl Conyers, but the black-haired one seems the most promising prospect. He’s been in New York for some time, and Mrs. Dewey thinks he’s here to find a wife.”

“They always are,” Linnet murmured without bothering to glance at the object of this discussion. “You needn’t act as if it’s such a revelation.”

“Yes, but he asked Mrs. Dewey about you while you were dancing and seemed very interested. He is the Earl of Featherstone, and—”

Linnet lifted her head, frowning as the name stirred to life long-forgotten gossip. “Wasn’t Featherstone the peer who married Belinda Hamilton of Cleveland? I thought he died.”

“That was Charles Featherstone, and yes, he died. This is his brother, John—or Jack, as his friends call him. He inherited the title when his brother passed away.”

Belinda Hamilton’s marriage to the previous Earl of Featherstone was a lesson to any American girl with a sense of self-preservation, and might provide Linnet with the perfect way to yet again counter her mother’s insistence she marry a peer.

Her attention captured at last, Linnet turned her head, following her mother’s gaze, lighting at once on the man in the center of the group, a man now staring back at her, a man whose hair was as black as a raven’s wing and whose heart, she could only conclude, was equally so.

Everything about him spoke of a rakehell. His body, tall and powerfully built, seemed designed for wild sport and reckless pursuits. His hair, thick and unruly, lacked the discipline of pomade, hinting at a similarly undisciplined character. His face was handsome enough, she supposed, but its lean planes and sharp, chiseled features gave the impression to Linnet’s mind of a predatory hawk. His eyes, black and impenetrable, looked back at her without blinking—the hawk assessing possible prey.

Linnet, however, was no naïve, hapless little mouse to be plucked up for her fat dowry. Faced with such an unscrupulous stare, she lifted one eyebrow in response. Perfected during her days at finishing school, it was a pointed indication to a rude man that he was being rude, and its usual result was to send the man in question scurrying off in abashed dismay.

Not this man. Instead of looking away, he looked down, and those bold eyes roved with unnerving thoroughness over her person, from head to toe and back, pausing for far too long at the neckline of her gown, reminding her how low it was cut.

For no reason at all, she blushed, heat spreading outward from where his gaze lingered at her breasts to all the other parts of her body—down her legs and along her arms, up her neck and into her face. Her toes curled in her satin slippers, and without thinking, she lifted one gloved hand to her chest to shield herself from his ill-mannered observation.

His thick black lashes lifted. As his eyes met hers again, their corners creased with amusement, and one corner of his mouth curved up in a faint smile.

Furious, Linnet tore her gaze away, and as she did, she caught sight of a footman carrying a tray filled with glasses. Feeling in desperate need of a drink, she plucked one of the glasses from his tray as he passed, and ignoring her mother’s disapproving stare, she downed half the cream sherry it contained in one swallow. She felt ready to address the point at issue.

“It’s obvious the present Earl of Featherstone is no improvement over the previous one. Charles Featherstone married Belinda Hamilton for her money and everyone knows it. If the gossip is to be believed, he treated her badly after their marriage and made her miserable.”

“Well, of course Belinda Hamilton was miserable in her marriage,” Helen agreed without batting an eye. “She was very New Money, dear, and completely unprepared to be the wife of an earl.”

“And yet, Belinda Hamilton married again two years ago,” Linnet couldn’t resist pointing out. “She wed the Marquess of Trubridge. If I recall all the lessons of the British peerage you’ve stuffed into my head, Trubridge is the only son of the Duke of Landsdowne, so she’ll be a duchess one day.”

“Her first marriage prepared her for her second, and that is preparation you don’t need. You could step into the role of peeress without a qualm. I’ve seen to that.”

“Yes, ever since Conrath, it’s been nothing but En-glish governesses and lessons upon lessons in British politics, British estates, British customs. I’ve wanted none of it.”

“So, because of a broken heart over one peer, you’ve decided to never consider the possibility of another. Instead, you would limit yourself to this.” Helen waved a hand disdainfully toward their surroundings. “This narrow, confined life.”

“I want what I have, and I don’t see what’s so confined or narrow about it.”

“But that’s just it, my darling, I wish I could make you see.” Helen looked at her, and a strange passion came into her face. “If you marry one of our Knickerbocker men, you would become
me.
You would live my life, a life where you run the house, and that is all. Where your husband shuts you out of anything important or meaningful, and society approves it. Where even philanthropic work is regarded as unseemly, and your greatest concern becomes giving a more exclusive ball than Mrs. Astor!”

Linnet stared at her mother, shocked by this impassioned speech. “Mother, aren’t . . .” She hesitated, uncertain she wanted to ask. She’d never seen her mother as anything but cheerful, happy, and determined, soldiering on, as it were. The idea that Helen might be discontented had never occurred to her. “Aren’t you happy with Daddy? With our life?”

The passion in Helen’s face vanished, leaving nothing but the complacent certainty Linnet was used to, but she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved by that or not. “Linnet, I love your father. I love our home, and I love you. My life is one that suits my temperament and my limited abilities. Don’t argue,” she added, as Linnet opened her mouth to protest this sort of self-disparagement. “I’m not a clever woman, and I’ve never been one to light up a room. But you, my beautiful, golden daughter, you can be so much more than I could ever be.”

Linnet’s eyes stung, and she blinked. “I don’t like it when you talk this way about yourself.”

Helen ignored her, of course. “When we came to know Conrath, I began to realize there were wider possibilities for you than our narrow, insular circle. I’d hoped our trip abroad would open your eyes. There could be such an exciting world out there for you if you married a peer. An English estate is a far more challenging thing to run than a New York brownstone. An English peeress has so much more freedom and power than I will ever have. Her circle of friends would not be horrified if she traveled the world, excavated ruins, wrote novels, or became a great political hostess. The English peeress can be part of a glittering, cosmopolitan world. Look to Jennie Jerome’s example of what life could hold for you, if you don’t believe me.”

Linnet stared helplessly into her mother’s wistful face. “But what if what you want for me is not what I want for myself? I don’t think I’d want to live in a glittering, cosmopolitan world, or be a great political hostess. I’m an ordinary Yankee girl, and I can’t imagine being anything else.”

“Only because you’ve never thought about it.”

“I don’t have to think about it. I like my life as it is, and I want to marry someone who wants the same things I do.”

“I’m not giving up.” Helen’s green eyes took on a determined, ambitious gleam Linnet knew all too well. “If you’re not married by February, we’re going back to London for another season. Maybe some of the British gentlemen who admired you so much when we were there would seem more attractive to you with a second look. The Duke of Carrington, for example, or Lord Danville, or perhaps Sir Roger Oliphant. Or some new gentleman perhaps. Meanwhile . . .” She gave another nod to the three British men nearby. “There are possibilities right here in Newport.”

“Mother, you are impossible.” Exasperated by her mother’s singular talent for ruining any tender moment between them, Linnet turned her attention to the ballroom floor and strove to find a change of subject that wouldn’t lead to another fight.

“Oh, look,” she said, “there’s Davis MacKay dancing with Cicely Morton. I wonder if he’s at last worked up the nerve to ask for her hand? In her last letter to me, he hadn’t.”

But she was not destined to escape her mother’s machinations so easily. “Never mind Cicely Morton,” Helen whispered. “Featherstone is still watching you.”

“Is he?” Uninterested, she rose on her toes, trying to see over the people in front of her to better watch the dancers.

“Yes, indeed. It’s clear you’ve piqued his interest.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she muttered without glancing in that direction. “I suspect what he admires most is my pocketbook.”

“I do hate seeing such cynicism from you, and based on what? You condemn Featherstone and every other peer because of one bad experience.”

“I am not doing any such thing. I’m forming a logical conclusion based on facts. Everyone knows the previous Lord Featherstone was a ne’er-do-well who spent Belinda Hamilton’s entire dowry before he died, so the present Lord Featherstone must be in desperate need of cash. I’ve no doubt he’s in America to embark on the same nefarious course his brother pursued, but as we have discussed so many times, I have no intention of rewarding a fortune hunter with my dowry.”