To Marry an Heiress (17 page)

As they did with most of the nobility, shopkeepers had all extended Devon credit in good faith. He did not want it bandied about London that he was
not a man to whom credit could be offered. It was bad enough that news of it would be bandied about the countryside soon.

He glanced out at the passing scenery. The dwindling sunlight of late afternoon added to his melancholy. Life as the peerage had once known it was drifting away like smoke rising from an open fire.

If Christopher had not been investing in some of Kit’s ventures in Texas, that branch of the family would no doubt be in as dire straits as Devon was.

Even with the selling of his London home, Devon felt as though he was only one breath away from drowning.

A sudden flash of waving arms in a tree and a high-pitched yell caught his attention. He stuck his head out the window for a clearer look.

Was that a child dangling from a branch in the tree?

By God! Was it
his
child?

He banged on the roof of the carriage, and his driver brought it to an immediate halt. Devon shoved open the door and climbed out.

“M’lord, what is it?” the driver asked.

Hands on his hips, Devon stared at the trees. How far had they traveled since his sighting?

“Did you see a child in the trees?” he asked.

“No, m’lord. My eyes were trained on the road ahead. It’s been a bit bumpy, and I was working to avoid the ruts.”

Devon took two steps forward. “I saw something.”

“Probably one of the little farm urchins, m’lord. I’m sure he knows what he’s about.”

His driver was no doubt correct in his assumption. Still the hairs on the back of Devon’s neck prickled with unease. “Wait here.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

With each step he took he felt his muscles slowly knotting from his calves all the way to his neck.

He saw bare arms as skinny as the twigs in the trees and almost as brown from the dirt that had gathered on them. He forced himself to take a deep breath as he neared the flailing arms that were reaching toward the ground instead of the sky. It would not do to startle the lad with an eruption of temper if what he suspected was true.

The child was dangling with his legs hooked over a branch. His chest was bare, and some sort of red markings marred his face, painted across his brow, cheeks, and nose like those on the Scottish heathens of old.

The boy’s blue eyes widened. “Father, you’re home!”

Devon’s heart nearly stopped when his son swung up and shoved his legs off the branch, falling to the ground and landing with a heavy thump.

“Father! Father!” Millicent cried as she came scampering around the tree. Georgina followed closely behind her.

Was that the quill of a pen sticking out from behind his daughter’s head and held securely in place by the abominable red bandanna?

Some of his irritation with the situation must have shown on his face, because both she and Georgina staggered to a halt. Devon jerked off his jacket and tossed it around Noel’s bare shoulders.

“Get into the carriage,” he ordered in a tightly controlled voice.

“But Father—” Noel began.

“Now,” Devon stated flatly in a voice that brooked no arguments. His gaze alighted quickly upon the female members of his family. “All of you. Into the carriage
now
.”

Standing in the library, Georgina knew beyond a doubt that Devon was furious. More furious than she’d ever seen him. Angrier than he’d been when he’d discovered her father had gambled away his wealth.

The fury had been evident in the cold, hard stare he’d fixed on her once he’d followed her into the coach. As though she was a mother hen guarding her chicks, Georgina had wrapped her arms around the children, nestling them against her sides with the absolute determination to protect them from the consequences of his wrath.

Tiny Millicent had buried her face against Georgina’s breast while Noel had fiddled with a button on his father’s jacket.

Georgina had angled her chin defiantly, but she’d found it difficult to display righteous indignation with any success when war paint decorated her face. As soon as they’d arrived home, Devon had insisted she join him in his study.

She had refused, indicating her need to ensure that the children were seen to. She’d also wanted a moment to scrub her face.

She’d won that argument.

She had a feeling she wasn’t going to win this one, regardless of what it was.

Devon had the look about him of a man who’d suffered far too many defeats of late and would do whatever it took to ensure victory this go round.

With her back as stiff as a poker, she stood before his desk, grateful her skirt hid her quaking knees.

He loomed on the other side of the desk, gripping the edges as though he feared if he released his hold that his hands would find their way to her throat. Anger darkened his eyes. The veins in his neck stood out in stark relief, and the tenseness in his face served to sharpen the angles that usually provided him with a handsome visage.

She could see his chest heaving. It was evident he was striving to tether his anger. She simply wished he’d release it and be done with it.

“What in God’s name were you thinking to have my son, the heir apparent, the future Earl of Huntingdon, running about the countryside half-naked?” he asked in a tightly controlled voice.

“Half-clothed,” she answered, grateful her voice didn’t tremble.

His dark eyebrows shot together as quickly as a fired bullet. “Pardon?”

She swallowed hard and cleared her throat as quietly as possible. “It depends on how you look at
him. You saw him as half-naked. I saw him as half-clothed.”

“It depends on how
I
look at him? Madam, it is not
my
looking at him that concerns me. It is how our tenants may have seen him! How the villagers may have seen him! How someone from the peerage might have viewed him! I’ll not have him referred to as the insane heir apparent who runs about the countryside half-naked—”

“Half-clothed.”

“With paint smeared on his face and skinny chest.” His gaze darted to the small stand where his pen usually rested beside the bottle of ink. “My daughter had a bloody quill pen stuck in her head!”

“It wasn’t actually stuck in her head—” She quieted as he jerked his uncompromising glower to her.

“What in God’s name were you thinking?”

“That they could use some fresh air and fun. I’d never heard them laugh, seldom seen them smile—”

“Do you not comprehend the gravity of your actions? Have you no concept of what it is to constantly be looked upon to set an example? Do you not understand the burden we carry upon our shoulders to be better—to always make the right decisions—to do what is best regardless of the consequences to ourselves?”

It wasn’t fury she saw in his eyes, but fear mingling with disappointment and perhaps even a bit of self-loathing.

“This has nothing to do with my taking the children on a picnic.” She placed her palms on the desk
and leaned toward him beseechingly. “Devon, what’s happened?”

“Everything is bloody well caving in on me!”

She leaped back as he swept his arm across the desk and sent everything crashing to the floor.

He stormed to the window, banged his fist against it, and bowed his head. His defeated mien caused a surge of compassion in her.

His harsh breathing began to lighten. “Leave, Gina. See to the children. I’m certain the terrifying journey with me in my carriage has left its mark on them.”

“I’ve already seen to them. They’re fine. Children recover quickly. Adults not as fast.” She braved a step toward him. “Devon, tell me what’s brought all this on?”

She watched the subtle shaking of his head, could see his throat working as he swallowed. “Please tell me,” she said gently.

He released a long, slow, deep breath.

“It was harder to let go of the house in London than I expected. Three generations have lived there. I sold it to an American who paid me in cash. In cash. He has three daughters whom he wishes to marry off to a man who has a title. Three daughters with ample dowries.”

“And you’re thinking maybe you could have secured one as your wife if you hadn’t settled for me.”

If at all possible, he bowed his head farther and his shoulders slumped. “Please leave before I say something we’ll both regret.”

His unwillingness to voice his thoughts was as
devastating as if he’d said what he feared they’d regret. Why she would want to comfort this man, who always seemed to look to the darkness instead of the light, baffled her, but she did possess a strong desire to ease his burden. That he didn’t want her help was painful. Why did he have to be unbearably proud?

“If you want a divorce—”

“Don’t be ludicrous,” he stated.

“But you’d be free to marry—”

“What heiress would want a man who sent his first wife to an early grave and could not hold on to his second? Besides, a divorce is a lengthy process. By the time you were rid of me, his daughters would be long wed.”

She almost informed him that he’d misunderstood. She didn’t want to be rid of him, rather she expected he would welcome being rid of her. Instead she said, “You’re not responsible for Margaret’s untimely death.”

“Shows what you know,” he muttered.

What she didn’t know, what she’d never thought to ask was how the woman had died, although she was relatively certain he had nothing to do with her demise.

“Did you use a knife or a gun?” she asked.

He snapped his head around and glared at her. “Pardon?”

“You said you were responsible for her death. I was trying to determine what sort of weapon you used.”

“I didn’t murder her, but neither was she happy with this life.”

“She took her own life then?”

Shaking his head, he turned his gaze back to the window. “She fell ill one winter. Lacking the will to live, she succumbed to the disease. Had I managed to ensure her happiness, she would have fought more valiantly.”

“You can’t possibly believe—”

“I disappointed her, countess, beyond measure. There are aspects to our life of which you are not aware. Suffice it to say that Margaret was a genteel woman and I failed her.”

Dear Lord, but he’d placed the woman on a pedestal from which she should have long ago toppled. How could he not see that? Margaret had his love, his children, and their love. She’d been wealthy beyond measure, taking for granted all the things that Georgina dearly desired.

It was hardly fair that she found herself caring for a man who would never care for her, who was so blinded by his first love that he could not see that Margaret had been undeserving of him. He would defend her to the death.

Georgina knew she could never compete, could never convince him that the woman hadn’t deserved him, and so she retreated.

“About dinner—”

“Serve whatever you wish,” he interrupted.

His voice carried no emotion, and she thought she might have preferred him angry. It was unsettling to hear the emptiness.

“While you were away, I invited the children to eat in the main dining room with me. I’d like for them to continue eating with us there.”

He waved his hand in a gesture that seemed to take all his strength. “Do whatever you wish. Nothing matters any more.”

She considered arguing everything mattered and mattered to a far greater extent, but she didn’t think he was in the mood to listen or heed her words of wisdom. As quietly as she could, she left the room, left him to his misery, to his demons, to the memories of his dead wife.

G
eorgina was grateful Devon did not appear to be inclined to inflict his foul mood on his children any more than he already had.

She was surprised he’d shown up for dinner at all. He looked beleaguered, sad, embarrassed.

As they all sat at the dining room table, quietly eating, she contemplated his earlier outburst. She had assumed poverty carried with it a certain burden because one never knew from where the resources for providing food, warmth, and housing would come.

She’d never considered living up to expectations as a burden. She’d always wanted to please her father, but she’d always seen her actions as more of a gift, not a requirement of his love.

She wished she knew how best to help Devon. Even when he’d thought he was going to have her father’s funds in hand, he had not seemed happy.
What was the value of money when there was no happiness?

Even when her family had been as poor as dirt, they’d been happy. Certainly life was easier when one had money. But joy was something that came from inside a person, not from the things surrounding him.

Devon was right. There was so much about his way of life that she simply couldn’t comprehend.

During the third course of the meal, Devon cleared his throat, and both children jumped in their chair, giving him sideways glances. He visibly relaxed, allowing the scowl he’d worn all evening to drift into oblivion.

“I presume you children were pretending to be Indians this afternoon,” Devon said drolly.

“No, Father,” Noel answered. “We were acting out the Boston Tea Party. Do you know the story?”

Georgina saw his fingers tighten around his fork as he cast a quick glare her way before turning his attention back to his son. “I am well versed in that tale of traitors—”

“Heroes,” Georgina interrupted.

With precision, he lifted his napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. She was almost willing to bet he was attempting to hide a smile.

“I suppose it depends upon your perspective,” he said.

She angled her head. “Exactly. Had England won, no doubt history would have shown them to be traitors. Since the colonies were victorious, they were rebels fighting in a just cause.”

He cleared his throat and returned the napkin to his lap. “I see.”

She wondered if he really did understand her explanation or if he was merely placating her. Either way, his mood seemed to have lifted, and she much preferred to look at him when he wasn’t scowling.

Millicent shifted on the pillows in her chair. She’d needed a little boost to be able to eat properly at the adult table as she called it. Georgina wished Devon had been here to see the delight in his daughter’s eyes the first night she’d been granted permission to eat in this room.

“Father?” Millicent asked hesitantly.

He gave her an indulgent grin. “Yes, Kitten.”

She jutted out her lower jaw. “I lost my tooth.”

Along with her lisp.

“You certainly have. Splendid.”

“Gina told me to put it under my pillow. I did. And guess what?”

He shook his head. “I can’t imagine.”

She placed her fist on the table and slowly uncurled her fingers. “A fairy brought me a ha’ penny!”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he said.

“Gina said the fairy must have followed her from Texas, and perhaps when I lose my next tooth, it’ll pay me a visit as well,” Noel told him.

Devon sat back in his chair. “Perhaps I should knock out a few of my teeth,” he murmured.

“The fairy only visits those who believe in magic,” Georgina said, “and you, my lord, are too cynical.”

“Cynicism protects the heart.”

“No, my lord. It imprisons it.”

“Once again, my sweet, one’s perspective seems to come into play.”

She was close to believing he was actually beginning to enjoy the conversation.

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight. Devon shoved the ledger aside and rubbed his stinging eyes.

He’d perused accounts since dinner and had been unable to find a shred of hope for salvation in the entire mess.

Perhaps he
would
knock out a few of his teeth and place them beneath his pillow.

He was exhausted and disappointed. But more, he was ashamed of his circumstances, which had forced him to marry for money alone—although, he reluctantly admitted, Georgina was turning out to be a bit of a gem.

He had little doubt she could match angry retort for angry retort, and yet she’d seen through his anger and probed for its cause.

He’d never displayed his bad temper in front of Margaret. The very thought was inconceivable. She’d been a lady of the highest regard, sheltered, protected from the harshness of the world.

He could not help but believe the shame of his poverty had destroyed her as effectively as her illness. She’d simply had no desire to continue on in the only world he could provide. So he carried the burden for her death, held himself accountable, and was often overcome when the guilt reared its ugly head at the most inopportune moments.

Yet Georgina took their situation in stride, as though it was merely an inconvenience instead of the rapidly approaching demise to a way of life. He knew no other.

And that scared the hell out of him.

She’d seen that as well. It was frightening how well the woman was coming to know him, even though he kept her at a distance. What in God’s name would she discover if he allowed her to get close?

And what would he discover about her?

She had seemed tough when she’d laid out the conditions that accompanied her agreement to marry him. He had not suspected then that she was as soft as a goose down pillow on the inside. The manner in which she’d hugged his children against her as they’d driven home—by God, she’d been a lioness fiercely protective of her cubs.

Her delicate nostrils had flared in warning, and he’d dared not utter a word during the journey for fear he might imperil his life. His anger should have increased. The very notion that she expected him to direct his fury toward his children! Instead he’d admired her determination to shield them.

When he married her, he’d expected her to have little interest in the children. Although her father had indicated she wanted her own, Devon had not considered that his would intrigue her and that she would want to spend as much time with them as she did.

He hesitated to admit that he’d enjoyed having his children present during dinner. They brought
sunshine into the dreary room. And God knew he could use all the sunshine he could muster.

With a deep sigh he stood and stretched. The clock had stopped its
bonging
some time ago. It was time he turned in for the night. No amount of staring was going to bring him a solution this evening.

He ambled into the hallway, not in any particular hurry. He regretted the tantrum he’d thrown that afternoon. Regretted so many things.

He was surprised to notice the candles in the chandeliers were still alight. He would have to instruct Gina that her wifely duties entailed ensuring that the servants extinguished all flames before they went to bed.

Then he spotted her.

Lying on the floor in the middle of the foyer, a blanket spread beneath her, her head cushioned by a pillow.

He was unprepared for the warm pleasure that flowed through him and the easing of the loneliness that seemed to be such a part of him these days. Not wishing to startle her, he softened his step until he was near enough to see her more clearly. She was staring at the ceiling.

He crouched beside her. “What are you doing?”

She smiled gently. “I’ve been intrigued by the paintings on the ceilings since I arrived, but I get a crick in my neck when I look at them for too long.” She shrugged. “I decided to indulge myself and stretch out here so I can gaze on them for as long as I wanted.”

Chuckling, he sat beside her, raised his knee, and
draped his wrist over it. “You’re unlike any Englishwoman I’ve ever known.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not quite certain that I was offering you a compliment.”

“I am.”

She appeared incredibly smug. She wore a wrap over her nightgown. He could see the buttons that ran up the front and came to a stop just beneath her chin. His stomach clenched as he remembered loosening those perfect pearls until they revealed the velvety softness of her skin beneath.

He swallowed hard in order to free his voice. “Why these particular ceilings?”

“Because they were next.”

“Pardon?”

She slid her sparkling gaze toward him. “I’ve spent some time on the floor in all the hallways in the east wing. The foyer was next before I moved on to the other areas of the house.”

“The floor must make for an uncomfortable bed.”

“I don’t sleep here. Usually I don’t even study the paintings for very long, but these seemed sort of sad. I wonder what the artist was thinking.”

He lay down beside her, rested on his elbow, and squinted at the painting of cherubs and unicorns in a mystical garden. “I imagine he was thinking, ‘I hope I don’t jolly well fall off this scaffold.’”

Her soft laughter wove around him, through him. A delightful lilt that drew his attention back to her. She fell into immediate silence when he tucked behind her ear a stray strand of hair that had escaped
her braid. “What do you think he was thinking?” he asked quietly.

“I think he thought it was a shame unicorns no longer existed.”

Their faces were incredibly close, her eyes amazingly large.

“I suppose you believe in unicorns,” he murmured.

She nodded slightly. “I believe in all good things.”

“So innocent.” He heard her breath catch as he trailed his finger along her chin, her first weapon of defiance. “I owe you an apology for my outburst this afternoon. It was totally inappropriate under the circumstances. You were merely taking the children on an outing, and I—I overreacted.”

“I have to apologize, too. I haven’t been very understanding about my father’s failure to uphold his end of the bargain. I knew you were angry, but I didn’t realize the extent to which he had harmed you.”

“I was searching for a quick solution to a long-term problem. With the money I made from the sale of the townhouse, I was able to pay your father’s debts.”

She furrowed her brow. “You paid off my father’s debts?”

“As well as a goodly portion of my own. If we are frugal, we should be all right for a short time.”

She rolled onto her side and tucked her hand beneath her cheek, an incredibly innocent pose.

“You strike me as a clever man. How did you find yourself in this predicament of near financial ruin?”

“
Near
financial ruin? Sweeting, I’m in the depths of it.”

“How did it come about?”

He retrieved the strands of hair he’d placed behind her ear earlier and began to toy with them. “The world has grown smaller. Crops that were once ours to produce are grown elsewhere and shipped in. The product is cheaper. The tenant farmers can barely make their rent, even though I continually lower it.”

“Then kindness has made you a pauper.”

“No, my father made me a pauper.”

“How so?”

The light from the flickering flames burning in the candles overhead danced over her features, softening the sharp lines of her nose and chin, making her cheekbones less prominent. Just as the firelight in the hearth had on their wedding night.

She was a woman who belonged in a bedchamber, shrouded in shadows, writhing on satin sheets, calling out his name. How easy it had been to cast himself from her bed when her father’s breach of faith had sliced his pride to ribbons. How difficult now to cast his pride aside and ask to be welcomed back into her bed.

“My father took little care in anticipating future needs. He married for love. My mother brought little to the family coffers.” He hesitated, wondering how she would handle the remainder of his tale.

“And you did the same,” she said quietly. “With your first marriage.”

“Yes,” he rasped. “I was young and too full of my
self to put the greater good ahead of my own desires.”

“I think you’re wrong. Nothing is more important than love.”

“You don’t understand our society.”

“Were you happy with Margaret?”

“For a time. Until she realized the truth of our situation and accepted the ghastly prospect it might never improve. My love did little to ease her misery. It is better not to have it, I think.”

She looked at him as though he was daft.

“Given the choice between love and money, you would choose money?” she asked.

“I have already proven my current preference, have I not?”

He knew he’d spoken too freely, revealed too much when pity touched her eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he ordered as he shoved himself to his feet. “I do not desire your pity.”

But as his strides carried him away from her, he feared pity was all that remained for him to receive from any woman.

Georgina galloped the dark bay mare over the lush countryside until its sides were heaving from the exertion and her body was aching. Unable to locate the stable boy, she’d simply taken matters into her own hands and saddled the horse herself.

While she contented herself with a stroll most days, today she’d felt a driving need to ride, to travel farther than she ever had…she’d have gone all the
way back to Texas, if only an ocean hadn’t stood in her path.

Drawing back on the reins, she slowed the mare to a plodding walk.

A week had passed since Devon had returned from London. She saw less of him now than she had before. He joined her and the children for breakfast and dinner.

But he was “out and about” during the day. To her continual inquiries regarding what he did with his day, he’d simply respond, “I have things to which I must attend.”

Those
things
kept him away from the house. She didn’t want to contemplate that one of his activities might involve a mistress. Yet he arrived home as immaculate as he appeared at breakfast. Too clean. Too tidy.

He was hiding something. She’d gamble her life on it.