The Seduction (3 page)

Margaret walked through the French doors, out onto the balcony. The sun fell over her like warm honey, and the breeze caressed her face. Her view faced the countryside of wooded hills and meadows. She stared out over the lush, green landscape with longing, wishing she had time to take one of the horses out, but it was too late in the day for a ride. At home in America, she would have thought nothing of it, but on this side of the Atlantic, going out alone, especially in the late afternoon, was an unpardonable breach of etiquette.

She had been thrust into a world where everything exciting seemed to be a breach of etiquette. She shifted her weight restlessly and, not for the first time, she chafed under the rigid rules of her existence.

A knock sounded on her door. That would be Cornelia. With a resigned sigh, Margaret walked back into the sitting room of her suite and sat down on the sofa. "Come in."

As expected, it was her cousin who entered the room. But, to Margaret's dismay, Cornelia had brought extra ammunition with her. Margaret's father.

Henry Van Alden was a powerfully built man, with piercing gray eyes and a square jaw that clearly showed the determination that had made him one of America's wealthiest men. Just now, he wore a frown that the financiers of Wall Street and Margaret both knew very well. The men of Wall Street would have been intimidated by that frown. Margaret was not.

The pair took chairs facing her. Margaret gathered her defenses and prepared for yet another confrontation about her future. Her gaze moved defiantly from her father to her cousin and back again. "Why don't you give me the lecture and get it over with?"

"Hymes came solely for the purpose of seeing you," Henry said, "and the minute he arrives you plead a headache and leave."

She shot an accusing glance at Cornelia, and her father saw it. "Cornelia didn't tattle on you, miss. The Duchess of Arbuthnot told me, and she expressed great concern over your future."

Margaret found that concern hard to believe and expressed it succinctly. "Hah!" she said in an exact imitation of the cantankerous old lady.

Henry let that pass. "The fact remains that Lord Hymes asked my permission to court you, and I gave it. Hymes would make you a good husband."

"I don't think so."

"What's wrong with him?" Henry demanded, clearly exasperated and puzzled. They'd had many similar discussions during the past year, but Margaret knew he still did not understand her nor the reason she refused one man after another. "He seems a good enough fellow. He's a viscount. Quite a catch, Cornelia tells me."

"Is he? I am informed that he's desperately in need of money."

"So is nearly every other British peer. What of it?"

"He's nothing but a fortune hunter. Doesn't that bother you?"

Her father's frown deepened into a scowl, and Cornelia spoke before the shouting could begin.

"Maggie, you can't expect your father's financial status to go unnoticed. A dowry is always important to a man thinking of marriage. But just because Lord Hymes is a bit short in the pocket doesn't mean his feelings for you aren't genuine. I'm certain he's an honorable man."

"Then why don't you marry him?" Margaret countered gloomily.

Her cousin smiled and moved to sit beside her on the sofa. "I'm already married, remember? I think Hymes really does care for you. I think he wants to marry you for more than your money."

Margaret looked at her cousin with envy. Cornelia had the good fortune to have fallen in love with a man who had more wealth and a higher social position than herself. There was no doubt his feelings for her were genuine. As long as she remained Henry Van Alden's daughter, Margaret would never have that certainty. "Hymes doesn't want a wife. He wants a banker."

"Damnation, Margaret!" Henry's voice exploded like a rifle shot, his patience obviously at an end. "It's important that you marry a gentleman who moves in the right circles, a man who can give you the respect of his name and position. Hymes can do that."

Margaret pressed her fingers to her temples and realized her feigned headache was becoming a reality. Respectability mattered so much to her father because it was the only thing his money could not buy. Though the powerful men of New York willingly dealt with him in business, their wives and daughters had closed ranks against the upstart Van
Aldens
. Hoping the British were more amenable, Henry had taken her to London and placed her in the hands of her cousin. Cornelia had married a viscount the year before and her excellent social connections made her perfectly suited to the task of finding Margaret a titled husband.

Thus far, the experiment had proved a dismal failure. Her father had received many offers for her hand, but Margaret had no intention of buying her way to respectability by becoming Lady Whatever and had refused every suitor that came her way.

"If I ever decide to marry, it will be for love and no other reason." She glared at her father, setting her jaw in a stubborn line that mirrored Henry's own. "I don't love Hymes," she said through clenched teeth, "and I'm not going to marry him."

"You're twenty-three, and I won't allow you to become an old maid. I intend to see you married before another year goes by. You say Hymes isn't the right man for you? Fine. Then pick another—
Edgeware
, Montrose, Worthington—I don't care which. They've all offered for you. So choose one, and let's get on with it."

The fact that her father could be so oblivious to her feelings made her angry and reckless. "Perhaps I'll just fall madly in love with some starving artist who'll paint me in the moonlight and whisk me away to a quaint little hovel on a Greek island where we can live in sin."

Her shot hit home. "You'll do no such thing!" Henry roared. Margaret knew she had gone too far. "I've had enough of this foolishness. You'll be properly wed to a respected gentleman. I'm getting old, and I want grandchildren before I die."

His words caused Margaret's anger to fade away. Her father had been talking a great deal about his age lately. "Don't say that."

"I'm fifty-two. No man on my side of the family has lived past fifty-five, and I probably won't either."

"You're not going to die for a long time yet, Papa."

Cornelia gave a delicate little cough. "Perhaps this discussion should be continued another time. It's after six o'clock, and the ball does begin at eight. We must be getting ready."

Margaret shot her cousin a grateful glance.

Henry rose to his feet. "I don't see why women need two hours to dress for a ball," he grumbled. "An hour is more than enough time."

"For men, perhaps," Cornelia replied. "But women require more time to look our best."

Margaret stood up and walked around the table to her father, hoping to make peace. "Don't worry, Papa," she said, linking her arm through his. "I will probably marry someday, if I find the right man. There's plenty of time."

"Time slips away faster than you think, my girl. I want you settled with a husband and children of your own." Henry paused. "You don't believe this, I know," he said heavily, "but love isn't everything, and it really isn't necessary to a successful marriage. I didn't love your mother, and she didn't love me. But we had a good, solid marriage just the same, and we were quite fond of each other."

"Yes, Papa, I know," she said, thinking a lifetime of good and solid and being fond of a man sounded horribly dull. She gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek before she gently ushered him out the door. When he left, she closed the door behind him. "Cornelia, you're an angel," she said, turning to her cousin. "Thank you. I'm so glad that's over. He seemed to take it rather well this time. At least he didn't threaten to disinherit me."

"I do believe he thought you were serious about the artist. Really, Maggie, sometimes you are so outrageous! A Greek island!"

"I think I shocked him with that one," she agreed, walking over to the sofa. "But sometimes Papa can be so overbearing. He thinks he can bully me into doing whatever he wants. And you're no help. Must you keep pushing Hymes down my throat?"

"If you hadn't already refused Lord
Edgeware
, Lord Worthington, and Lord Montrose, I wouldn't have to." Cornelia's expression became thoughtful. "I know it's sometimes difficult to believe, Maggie, but your father loves you. He wants you to be happy."

"So I am to be displayed all over the ballrooms and drawing rooms of England and the Continent like wares in a shop window? Am I an item to be traded, along with my substantial inheritance, for the price of a title?" Margaret shook her head as she sat down on the sofa. "No, thank you."

"You've been reading too many suffragette pamphlets. Courtship and marriage aren't like that at all."

"Aren't they? If you marry a man who does not love you, marriage is a prison."

Cornelia lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender. "I understand why your father becomes so exasperated with you, I honestly do! Maggie, I have introduced you to dozens of eligible men, yet you reject them all."

"I know what I want, and I won't settle for less. What's wrong with that?"

"No real man ever lives up to your expectations. You dismiss them all without giving any of them a chance to win your affections. You hardly know Lord Hymes, yet the moment you found out he didn't have money, you convicted him as a fortune hunter. You might get to know him before you make such a harsh judgment."

The clock on the mantel struck half past six, and Cornelia jumped up. "Heavens! We can't continue chatting away. We've got to get ready." She ran for the door. "Think about what I've said," she urged. "I'll see you downstairs."

Her cousin departed in a rush, and Margaret reached for the bell pull to summon her maid. The girl arrived within moments carrying Margaret's gown for the party. After Molly helped her dress, Margaret sent her away. She wanted to be alone.

Her father called her foolish. Cornelia called her unrealistic. Perhaps they were right, she thought, staring at her reflection in the mirror above her dressing table. Not exactly a face and figure that would inspire a man's passion. She saw a round face with brown eyes and a wide mouth, ordinary brown hair without a hint of gold or red to make it interesting, and a plump figure that no corset could mold into the fashionable wasp waist. She saw a taller version of the chubby child she'd once been.

Margaret wrinkled her nose at her reflection and sat down. It didn't really matter what she looked like. She could be a troll with a voice like a corn crake and suitors would still be standing by with their pedantic notions of courtship, treating her with kid gloves for fear of spoiling their chances. She had met many men like Hymes, and she was tired of their hypocrisy.

She thought of her friends—Ann, Eliza, Josephine— girls who had grown up in identical circumstances to her own. They were American girls with wealthy fathers and no background, who had gone to London to find titled husbands. They had found them, and they were miserable. Each had discovered that, beneath the aristocratic veneer, their dukes and their earls were cold, unfeeling, unfaithful, and usually in debt. Margaret would not make the same mistake.

She twisted her hair into a simple chignon and secured it with a pair of gold filigree combs. But her hands faltered as she began to fasten a diamond necklace around her throat. She ran the sparkling chain through her fingers without seeing its beauty. She would gladly trade all her diamonds and luxuries for a man who truly loved her, but she was afraid that no man would ever love her more than he would love her father's money.

Trevor followed the butler down a long hall, noting with appreciation the paintings of Italian and Dutch masters that lined the walls. He appraised their value with a knowledgeable eye. When Edward had wired instructions to Cairo, telling him to bring the necklace to the villa outside Rome where he was staying, Trevor hadn't expected the place to be quite so posh. If Edward could afford to let a house like this, he must have even more money than Trevor had realized. He cast an admiring look over his shoulder at the Rembrandt as he passed through a doorway and onto a portico of marble columns and malachite tile. If he'd known, he'd have upped his asking price for the necklace.