The Bride Insists (3 page)

“Neither of our families had much money,” was the way she put it to Miss Greenough. Certainly her own clergyman father had been in no position to assist her. “So I was obliged to seek employment. An aunt found me a position as companion to an aged relative. I remained with her until she died, and then moved to another similar post, and another after that. The woman I was working for most recently, Lady Harriet Vernley, was carried off by a lung complaint a few weeks ago. She was eighty-one and had been ill for some time.” Selina emphasized that last bit. There must be no suggestion of laxness in her care for her employer.

Clare liked her voice. It was low and pleasant, her manner straightforward and self-assured without a trace of… of peevishness. That was important. “So, you have always been employed by older ladies?”

Selina Newton nodded. She had, in fact, spent the greater part of her life catering to the whims and crochets of elderly females with enough money to afford such service. She assumed Miss Greenough had a relative in that position, though she didn't see why no one had yet said so. But Mrs. Hicks had suggested that the post was an interesting possibility for her, and Mrs. Hicks had never let her down. “I have a number of positive references,” Selina replied with a polite smile.

Clare looked into the older woman's eyes and asked one of the list of questions she'd prepared that would determine her choice. “Do you have a plan for your future?”

“My…?”

“For the time when you can no longer serve as a companion?” Clare added. “Due to age or… other factors.”

Selina stared at her. This was the dread hanging over every woman who came through the doors of this agency seeking work—the never-spoken terror of one's final years eked out in some dingy rooming house, tolerating whatever companions luck foisted upon you, pinching every penny and praying that they would last… long enough. No one talked about it. Or if they did, it was in whispers, as if speaking the words aloud might bring penury crashing down. Miss Greenough looked thin and pale and diffident, but there was nothing waiflike about her clear green gaze. Now she was waiting for an answer as if she'd posed a perfectly conventional question.

It was a good test, Clare thought—how a person dealt with her fears. She knew only too well what it felt like to wake in the night and lie rigid, anxiety devouring all hope of rest.

Under those steady, serious eyes, Selina told the truth: “Each of my employers has included a small bequest to me in her will. It is the usual thing in my sort of post. I have set these sums aside and intend to continue the practice, building up a nest egg for my own old age.” The amount she'd been able to accumulate was laughable, but there was no need to reveal that.

Clare nodded. It was an intelligent, realistic reply. She was beginning to think she had found the person she was seeking. “I'm looking for a companion,” she said.

Why else was she here, Selina thought? “For your grandmother or—?”

“For myself.”

Selina blinked in surprise.

“I am about to… enter society, and I have no family or acquaintances to call upon.”

“So you require a chaperone?” Why had Mrs. Hicks contacted her about this post? It was not the sort of thing she did. Young women wishing to make their way in London society wanted—needed—sponsors who could introduce them into fashionable circles. Selina had observed high society from the far periphery—part of its invisible background—but she had no influence or connections. She couldn't help Miss Greenough.

Clare hadn't thought of it in that light. “More of a… counselor, I would say. Someone to consult and advise as I… proceed. A companion, as you have been.” Clare had admitted to herself that the thought of living all alone was daunting.

“I see.” Despite Mrs. Hicks's recommendation, the position was unattractive. Firstly, Selina feared she wouldn't be able to fulfill its requirements. Beyond that, an attractive young woman—which Miss Greenough was—possessing the funds to hire a superior companion would soon marry. Selina didn't wish to be looking for work again in such a short time. “I don't think I am suited…”

Seeing her reluctance made Clare more certain of her choice. She decided to go a step further than she had with the other candidates, tell more of her story. “I have been employed as a governess for six years, almost since I left the schoolroom myself.” Clare smiled a little at the surprise in the other woman's face. How often did a governess hire a companion? “And now I have suddenly come into a large amount of money. I want someone to help me as I settle the circumstances of my life as I wish them to be.”

A mixture of envy and wistfulness ran through Selina. It was the dream of any dependent—to gain the power to control one's own life. How very seldom it happened. “How… splendid for you.” She hadn't meant the words to come out with that tinge of bitterness. She gathered her wits and set aside her emotions, as she knew so well how to do. “I must tell you that I am not well connected in society. And I know nothing about financial… arrangements. Surely you need a solicitor or…” She didn't even know who was appropriate.

Clare made up her mind. Selina Newton hadn't changed her tone when she heard there was a fortune involved. There'd been no gleam of greed in her hazel eyes or bend of sycophancy in her straight back. Clare thought this woman could be a resource and support as she carried out her plans. She decided to tell her the rest. “The terms of the legacy make it imperative that I marry as soon as possible.” Imperative to her, at any rate. She would not remain under Simon's thumb for a moment longer than necessary. Clare took a breath and said it out loud for the first time. “So I intend to purchase a husband.”

“I beg your pardon?” She couldn't have heard her correctly, Selina thought.

“People call the London season a Marriage Mart. I shall make use of it. I have the money.” Or the promise of money. Clare twisted her hands together. Spoken so starkly, it did sound outrageous.

Selina stared at her. With her pale hair and dowdy gown, the young woman didn't look unbalanced. She'd sounded perfectly reasonable until now. “My dear Miss Greenough, that is only an expression people use—”

“And expressions commonly arise from some real basis.”

“But—” Selina couldn't find any polite phrase to voice her true opinion.

“I want someone to aid me in this, I admit rather odd, endeavor. Obviously, I will have to make very careful judgments. From what I have seen of you, I believe you would give me good advice. So I hope you will consent to be that aid.”

Selina felt pinned by the young woman's striking green eyes. Why had she not noticed till now how they practically coruscated with energy? Used to doddering old women, Selina found the intensity of Miss Greenough's wrongheaded determination unsettling. She shook her head.

Clare spoke again before she could refuse. “I will undertake, in writing, to buy you an annuity of two hundred pounds a year, to begin as soon as I am married as I wish to be.”

Selina's mouth dropped open. A guaranteed, lifetime income of two hundred a year! It was more than twice what she'd made at any post, and she knew very well how to stretch such an amount to cover a secure and comfortable life. It was a dream come true. It was a fantasy. “Is this some sort of joke? Did Mrs. Hicks…?” But the staid head of her own highly respected agency was the last person on earth to participate in a hoax.

“Absolutely not. I will sign a contract, drawn up by anyone you like, to assure you of the funds.” Clare knew what a blessing she was extending. It was a pleasure to be able to do so.

The offer was astonishing. Selina could scarcely comprehend it—independence, the end of constant, nagging financial worries, of catering to old women's whims. It was irresistible. Selina felt herself being swayed. Even if it didn't work out, she would merely be back where she was now, searching for a position. And there was something else, she realized. She feared for this young woman, going out into the world with such a reckless plan. She wanted to help her. “All right.”

Like a man sealing a business deal, Clare reached across the space between them and offered her hand. A bit dazed, Selina shook it.

Despite a head that felt as if someone had stuffed it with cotton wool and then set the material on fire, Jamie left Andrew's rooms at ten to find a hackney cab. His eyes ached, and his stomach roiled after another night of drowning his sorrows in whatever form of drink passed near his hands—which were shaking as he climbed into the carriage. He might have used these pains as an excuse to put off his morning appointment, but he wasn't going to bother. It was time for him to face up to things and give in, for others' sake if not his own. He'd delayed the inevitable as long as he could. It was ridiculous to pretend that something might change.

With clenched teeth, Jamie endured the bounce and rattle of the wheels over cobblestones, the swerves as the driver wove through a press of vehicles. He paid the fare and climbed the steps to his man of business's office like a condemned man mounting the gallows. The fellow would have called on him, of course, but Jamie had no desire to seal the ruin of his house with Andrew in the next room. His friends knew his situation; that was not the same as having them overhear every sordid detail.

The young clerk in the outer office tried to take his greatcoat, making Jamie realize he'd forgotten his hat. When Jamie refused to relinquish the garment, he was ushered directly in. “I'm ready to make the final arrangements,” Jamie said as soon as the door shut behind the lad. “It's no use dragging it on any longer. I can't bear it.”

Everett Billingsley looked up from the thick document before him and into a pair of agonized dark eyes. Young Lord Trehearth looked haggard. Billingsley had heard rumors of his drinking, and he could see the signs of sleepless nights. It was such a pity. “Sit down, my lord.”

“There's nothing left to discuss.” But Jamie dropped into a chair across the desk and faced the man who had been his adviser for nearly ten years. Some part of the pain of losing his estate was the sense that he had failed this stalwart ally.

“Would you care for tea?” Billingsley watched his visitor slap his gloves against his knee. He was wound tight as a watch spring.

“I just want to get it over with.”
Would
he
feel
any
relief?
Jamie wondered. When it was all gone, when he'd acknowledged that he would never see Trehearth again, would the burden of grief lighten?

Billingsley sighed. He'd known the younger man all his life, and his parents before him. Billingsley's father had represented the interests of his grandfather. He genuinely liked young Lord Trehearth and had learned to respect him as they worked together to try to stave off the wreck of all his prospects. He hated seeing it end this way. The boy had tried so hard. “If only your father—”

“My father was a weakling and a coward!”

Billingsley hadn't meant to speak aloud. They had touched on this painful topic before, and it never went well. “I will never believe he meant to take his—”

“He killed himself,” interrupted Jamie harshly. “And left an unholy mess in my hands. Obviously, he
meant
to escape it.”

“He cared about you. He often said to me—”

“Cared? I was sixteen years old! My mother was barely three months dead.”

“Well, I think that was the reason he wasn't paying proper attention—”

“It doesn't matter.” Jamie cut off the conversation with a slashing gesture. Dredging up the past did no good. It simply hurt all over again, and the tremor in his voice when he spoke of it was downright humiliating. Had it been anyone other than Billingsley, who had gone through those dreadful years with him, he would have walked out of the room. “Let's just get on with it.”

“I've negotiated with the holders of the mortgages, and they've given us three more weeks—”

“And what do you suppose will happen in a few weeks to make any difference?”

The words were clipped and harsh, but the older man took no offense. He understood the anguish behind them. “Very well, my lord. I'll have the papers drawn up.”

“I would have thought you'd done that long ago. Can't I sign and be finished with this?” Now that he'd made the decision, Jamie didn't want to wait.

Billingsley could have produced the documents in short order. But somehow, he felt they should wait those final few weeks. It made no sense, yet he couldn't resist the impulse to play the thing out to the bitter end. Miracles did occasionally happen. “We'll prepare everything and notify you, my lord.”

“Oh, all right.” Jamie rose, remembering that there was a tavern not too far from here where he could get a decent ale. That would ease his headache, at least. He didn't wait for Billingsley to see him out. He strode through the door, threw open the one in the outer office, and walked smack into a woman on the other side. He threw her off balance and into a second female just coming up the steps behind her. They teetered, and he had to grab them both and pull them away from the stairwell.

A flash of pale green eyes impaled him. They made Jamie think of a creature he'd seen once in a menagerie, a rare white tiger brought back from India, fierce and beautiful.

“You can let go of me now,” said the owner of those amazing eyes.

Jamie dropped his hands and took a step back. “I beg your pardon.” The woman was pale, with regular features and hair gleaming pale gold in the dimness. Her frame had felt light as a bird's in his grasp. The one behind her was older, a mature and attractive brunette. Jamie scarcely noticed her as his gaze strayed back to those tiger eyes. They held a cold, appraising stare.

Clare had to look up at the gentleman in Billingsley's doorway. He was tall, and from her cramped position, his broad shoulders nearly obscured the room beyond. He'd caught the two of them as if they were nothing, his arm around her like an iron bar. The set of his mouth was grim, which was unreasonable, since he'd careened into them. His eyes were so dark they seemed black in the dim light of the stairwell; they gazed at her with a spark that looked both intelligent and bitter. What ailed the man? She'd done nothing to him, and still he glared. Though he didn't move, he gave the impression of scarcely controlled energy, pouring off him in waves. Clare pressed back against the wall; here was a dark and brooding presence. “May we go past?”

“I beg your pardon,” Jamie said again. Why had he been standing here like a looby? Awkwardly, they maneuvered around each other on the small landing, shoulders repeatedly brushing. For some reason, the touch made him think of the spark that sometimes crackled off the fur of a cat. Then he was free. He hurried down the steps, mind turning from the odd encounter to the foaming pitcher of ale that awaited. He didn't look back.

Clare Greenough and Selina Newton proceeded into Billingsley's outer office. They were early for their appointment. Clare hadn't been certain how long the cab journey would take. But the clerk showed them right in nonetheless.

Everett Billingsley stood to greet his next visitors and fought not to stare at the younger of them. This was a different person from the mousy governess who'd last called here to sign a pile of documents. Miss Greenough's cloak might be dull and shapeless, but her manner and expression were completely transformed. She stood straighter; her face glowed with purpose and intelligence.

“This is Mrs. Newton,” Clare said. “She has been kind enough to… join my household and bear me company.” Clare was still getting used to the idea that she might have a household of her own.

Billingsley met sparkling hazel eyes. The woman looked levelheaded and genteel, of an age to serve as chaperone. He approved.

“I've come to talk to you about a plan for my future,” said Clare as they sat in the chairs before the desk. “Selina and I have discussed this matter at great length.”

Now there was an understatement, Selina Newton thought. They had chewed over Clare's harebrained idea until they were both weary and annoyed. Though the debates had speeded the establishment of a friendship between them, Selina still thought the plan ridiculous. Why shouldn't Clare take her time, establish herself in town, make some acquaintances, enjoy herself a bit after years of servitude? But Clare wouldn't hear it. She remained convinced that this cousin of hers—Simon—would make any such scheme impossible. And despite everything Selina could say, Clare seemed to have some picture in her head of a marketplace where she could browse for a mate as one might buy vegetables.

“I cannot bear being under my cousin's control through this trust,” Clare continued. She kept her voice even. Some emotional exchanges had made Selina ask her why she was so unreasonably prejudiced against her cousin. “He will make it his business to forbid anything I want.”

Billingsley folded his hands on his desk. It was true that his dealings with the young woman's cousin so far had been difficult. The man did seem bent on thwarting her.

“So, I wish to marry right away.”

“Ah, there is some young man with whom you have formed…?”

“No. At first I thought I would advertise, but Selina has convinced me that would not be wise.” Her horrified reaction had done as much as her arguments to quash this plan.

“Advertise?” Billingsley frowned in confusion.

“For a husband,” Clare explained. “Selina thought we would get too many… unacceptable responses. And draw the wrong sort of attention.” Clare had seen the truth of this argument right away. It had been a silly idea.

Everett Billingsley had to hide a shudder. Meeting Mrs. Newton's penetrating gaze, he saw the same consternation there.

Clare sat straighter. “But I do wish to come to some… immediate arrangement with a gentleman who is looking for a rich wife.” It sounded rather bleak when she said it aloud. But that didn't matter. “Selina suggested that you might know how to proceed.”

Selina had suggested it because she hoped he would talk her out of it, the older woman thought. She tried to convey this with her expression.

“But, my dear Miss Greenough.” Billingsley searched for words. “You should take your time, meet people, enjoy your new independence.”

Clare sighed. She
had
thought things through. Why did people not see that? Why did they assume she was naive and witless? She steeled herself to go over it all once again. “You think I should rent a house in London? Perhaps try to secure invitations to some of the events of the season?”

“Yes, exactly. That would be most—”

“Can you advance me the funds to lease a suitable house?” Clare inquired. “And to purchase a proper wardrobe, of course, and… oh, rent a carriage, hire servants? I imagine this would be a significant sum.”

“Ah.” Billingsley had already received a searing letter from Simon Greenough about the five hundred pounds he'd withdrawn from the trust for Clare. The man had made it clear that he intended to monitor and approve every penny spent, and that he expected such a large initial amount to last a solitary young woman a year at least. He'd threatened to take Billingsley to law if he acted again without consultation.

“Mr. Billingsley?” Clare prompted.

“I do not have the sole authority to approve such a sum,” he admitted.

“And is it your impression that my cousin would agree to do so?”

He'd intended to write the man and lay out a case for further expenditure. He thought his arguments quite powerful. But the intemperate tone of the man's letter did not make him optimistic. In truth, he didn't know how he was going to deal with the rift in the Greenough family. Rancorous complications loomed. “No. Not immediately. I'm sure he could be brought around…”

“I imagine he thinks that the money you've already given me is sufficient for… oh, years.”

Clearly, Miss Greenough knew her cousin better than he did.

“If I were still a governess, of course, it would be. And as long as Simon has charge of my finances, I may as well be a governess.” Clare was trembling with anger and defiance, but she tried not to weaken her position by letting the others see it. They hadn't been present when Simon rejoiced at her brother's untimely death or sneered at her grief-stricken mother. They couldn't comprehend the depth of his malice. Or how desperate it made her feel to be under his control. His absence from her life had been one of the few good things about being an employee.

“I may be able to help convince him…”

“Mr. Billingsley, I beg you to believe me when I say that he will be immovable. There are many examples I could give you. My cousin allowed my grieving mother one week to vacate her home of thirty years, and he refused to let her take even one stick of furniture.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Selina saw the pain in Clare's face and how she tried to hide it. She'd learned a good deal about this young woman's character in a short time. And she'd found it admirable. She would do whatever she could to aid her.

Clare cleared her throat, clogged with old griefs, and strove to set the past aside. “So rather than wasting time remonstrating with Simon, I hope you will help me in another fashion, Mr. Billingsley,” she continued.

Billingsley saw his own pity reflected in Mrs. Newton's gaze. “How?”

“When I inquired at the bank, I was told you represent some of the oldest and most distinguished families in England.” Clare smiled at his surprised expression. “I wished to know something about my other trustee. They gave you the highest possible recommendation.”

“I'm pleased,” he said dryly. He
was
glad that she showed some business sense. But it had been years since he required anyone's recommendation.

“So, I thought you might be able to find me a husband.”

“Find you a…?” Billingsley turned to Mrs. Newton, who nodded as if to say,
You
see?

“Through your work, you must be acquainted with many gentlemen, and privy to their financial circumstances. Of course you cannot reveal confidential information. But there couldn't be any harm in making a simple introduction. Or more than one,” Clare conceded.