To Marry an Heiress (7 page)

She held his gaze. “He means the world to me. I like to see him happy.”

Devon found himself envying an old man for much more than the money he had at his disposal. “Your father is an extremely fortunate man.”

She shifted on the seat as though suddenly uncomfortable with his scrutiny. “Actually I ordered a simple white gown just in case you didn’t change your mind.”

“I told you I wouldn’t.”

“I know, but…this has all come about so quickly, and our reasons for marrying—I’m not certain they’re providing us with a strong foundation on which to build a marriage.”

He set the oars aside, leaned toward her, and took her gloved hand in his. “Among the aristocracy, marriage is seldom dictated by love. More often than not, it resembles an elaborate business arrangement, but contentment is possible. I shall do all in my power to see you do not regret this joining.”

“Do you resent that you have to resort to marriage in order to gain wealth?”

With every fiber of his being. He released her hand to prevent his crushing it with his frustrations. “For Huntingdon I gladly do whatever must be done.”

Her gaze slowly traveled over his face, and he wondered what she hoped to see.

“Did your first wife regard your marriage as an elaborate business arrangement?” she asked quietly.

She might as well have thrust a dull knife through his heart. His stomach tightened, and his chest felt as
though it was caving in on him. He swallowed hard to push down the lump rising in his throat. “No. Margaret was gravely disappointed in our marriage, in me. I thought love would sustain us. I was wrong.”

“So you’ve just proven your words false. Your marriage was dictated by love.”

“For a time.”

“What precisely disappointed her?” she asked.

“Poverty that neither of us expected when we married,” he murmured.

“How could you not expect it?”

“When we were first married, my father was still alive, and we enjoyed prosperity. Margaret and I were young. Margaret brought with her a small dowry. I was only just beginning to take on the responsibilities of Huntingdon.

“After my father died, I discovered that he’d made several bad investments, which began our downfall. I thought I could rectify matters rather quickly, but the next few years brought poor harvests that worsened our situation. Margaret did not take our decline well.”

“Her disappointment must have wounded you.”

“Wounds heal.”

“But they can leave ugly scars.”

Ah, yes, that they could. Straightening, he grabbed the oars and began to row with the urgency of a man striving to escape the demons that plagued him.

A
s the carriage wheels whirred, Georgina studied the man sitting across from her. She’d lowered her lashes, hoping she wouldn’t appear obvious as she peered at him. She knew it was rude to stare, but she couldn’t contain her curiosity.

When he’d first helped her into the carriage, she’d sat where he was now. It had seemed only fair. He’d ridden traveling backward on the way to the spot where he’d taken her for a boat ride. She felt she should travel with her back to the horses on the journey away from the river.

However, he’d refused to hear of it. They might have even gotten into an argument over it if he hadn’t ground out through clenched teeth, “It’s simply not done.”

She was beginning to despise that phrase. Apparently a lady was always given the honor of traveling forward. It was a small thing, but it bothered her.
She didn’t know why. He wouldn’t have hit her if she’d refused to move to
her
side of the carriage. Instinctively she knew that.

But neither would he have been willing to back down. He had certain expectations, rigid expectations, that governed his life. They would have waited by the river until the cows came home or until she relented.

Therefore she’d relented. She didn’t feel weak for having given in. It was really a silly custom, like most of their conventions, but she was beginning to realize life with him would be a series of compromises, mostly on her part. She would have to select her battles carefully.

Women were gifted when it came to bending. Men tended to break.

Her mother had taught her that valuable lesson by example. When Georgina was younger, she would get annoyed with her mother because she never seemed to stand up for herself. She was always doing for her husband, always giving in. Georgina knew her mother had resented the constant traveling, but she’d only shed silent tears and never voiced her objections.

Georgina didn’t quite understand the fine line one walked in marriage. She wondered if Huntingdon—Sheridan—Devon—Lord Huntingdon—
my lord
did.

Merciful heavens! Why did these people have to be known by so many names?

She knew cowboys who had one name only. She lifted a corner of her mouth thinking of Magpie, the one who had taught Tom all he knew. The man went
by only one name. Pure and simple. She knew what to call him.

“What amuses you?” Devon asked.

She lifted her lashes to view him more clearly in the shadowy confines of his fine carriage. With its comfortable seats, it rocked gently. At one time his family must have possessed everything.

“I was thinking about all your names. Where I come from, it’s not unusual for a man to have only one name.”

“Ah, I see. If I were to live in Texas, I would simply be Devon Sheridan.”

She shook her head slightly. “Just Devon or just Sheridan.”

One of his brows shot up in a perfect arch. “Indeed?”

“I know a man and his sole name is Magpie. Not Mr. Magpie or Lord Magpie. We simply call him Magpie.”

“How did he come to have such an ignominious name?”

She wasn’t certain if he was amused
with
her or
at
her, but she thought he was at least interested in what she was saying. “I think because he chatters all the time.”

“I assume he’s an orphan.”

“I don’t think so. It’s not uncommon in Texas for a man to simply go by one name. Especially cowboys. A lot of the men are loners. Some came to Texas to start over, and they left their names behind.”

“I daresay, fearful of being found out. I suppose you find the notion romantic.”

She lowered her gaze to her hands clasped in her lap. She found it difficult to organize her thoughts when those amazingly blue eyes of his were focused intently on her.

“I’m not faulting you for being of a fanciful bent,” he said quietly.

She snapped her head up. “I didn’t think you were. I—I can’t describe it. I don’t find it romantic. I find it sad…lonesome. I’m not sure if it takes a lot of gumption or desperation to leave everything behind, including the name your mother gave you.”

“I should think it takes a bit of both. Aren’t you leaving everything behind?”

“I don’t feel as though I am. I mean I can always go home to Texas. I don’t think these men who go by one name can return home. I’m not even sure if they have one anymore.”

He turned his attention to the passing scenery, placing his profile in sharp relief, like the craggy terrain of a mountain in the farthest part of west Texas. The sun, wind, and heat sculpted the land. She couldn’t help but wonder what had carved his features. It took more than handsome ancestors to create the character she saw reflected in his face. But she didn’t know him well enough to guess at all that might have shaped him. She wondered if she ever would.

She watched a muscle in his jaw jerk as though he fought to unclench his teeth.

“Once we are wed, England will be your home.” He’d fired each word precisely as though alerting her that she had little say in the matter.

“No.”

He shifted his gaze to her, and she saw the challenging glint there. But this aspect of their arrangement she would not give in on.

“I’ll live in England,” she said quietly, “but Texas will always be my home.”

“We shall see.”

He looked incredibly smug. She should have found this unattractive. Instead she realized it was the first time he seemed completely confident of the outcome. Did he think she would come to love the land of his birth or simply forget about hers?

“Indeed we shall,” she responded, mimicking his hoity-toity accent.

He chuckled low, the absolute mirth taking her by surprise. Had she really ever heard him laugh? Such a somber lot these Brits. She couldn’t imagine living within the confines of their myriad rules. She wondered how Lauren’s mother had ever adjusted.

“Why did you insist on sitting on that side of the carriage?” she asked.

Why indeed? Devon wondered. Now that they were engaged, it would have been entirely appropriate for him to sit beside her. He supposed, in retrospect, he should have, but they were rushing headlong into marriage, and he preferred to ease into the relationship—although he admitted the leisurely journey would come to an abrupt halt in two days’ time.

“Because when sharing a carriage with a lady, a gentleman always sits so he is the one who travels backward.”

“Another one of your society’s rules,” she stated flatly.

“Precisely. Tradition. Without it you have nothing.”

She curled her fingers around the parasol resting in her lap as though she was a bit disappointed with his answer. He doubted she’d ever used a parasol before today. While sitting in the boat, she’d carried it as she might an umbrella—to ward off a deluge of rain.

“In Texas, a gentleman would have shown me deference and let me sit where I wanted,” she said.

“For a woman who claims to have never been kissed, you seem to possess an inordinate amount of knowledge about the way gentlemen in Texas treat ladies.”

“A man can be polite without having an interest in a woman.”

“I grow weary of comparing our two societies. However, may I point out in my own defense”—as though it was needed, which he thought almost angrily it should not be—“I chose to honor tradition and place myself in the position of being the one to suffer ill effects from the journey.”

Her brow furrowed, and the lines around her mouth deepened as it curled downward. “I don’t understand.”

“Many ladies find riding backward unsettles their stomach. Makes them queasy. Watching what has passed before us is not as pleasing as watching what lies ahead. Therefore, out of consideration for your sensibilities, I sat here.”

“No, you didn’t.”

He stared at her, certain she had not intended to call him a liar to his face. “Pardon?”

“You didn’t sit there out of concern for me. You sat there out of concern for your society’s rules.”

“They are one and the same.”

“No, they’re not. A man in Texas is a gentleman because of the way he treats a lady. You’re a gentleman because you follow etiquette, more concerned with what others think of your behavior than you are with my feelings.”

“What the deuce are you on about? Did I not just spend the afternoon taking you on a boat ride?”

“Why?”

She was going to drive him to the damned lunatic asylum. “Why what?”

“Why did you take me for a boat ride? Did you desire my company?”

Shifting on the seat did little to ease the tension knotting the muscles in his neck and shoulders. A tightness settling in that had little do with this afternoon’s excursion and everything to do with this afternoon’s conversation.

“Or did you take me because it was expected?” she asked. “Because it was the
gentlemanly
thing to do?”

He had a strong urge to plow his hands through his hair, to stop the carriage, and walk home. But such a display of frustration would be intolerable. He felt trapped, suffocating, with everything closing in.

“I thought you might enjoy an afternoon of row
ing on the Thames. In two days we are to be wed, and that evening, Miss Pierce, I am going to lift your nightgown—”

She’d parted her lips ever so slightly, the tiniest of creases forming between her eyebrows. He saw the mottled blush rising to the surface of her face just before she ducked her head, averting her gaze.

He pushed out a great gust of air, swore harshly, and glared out the window. That conversation hadn’t gone in the direction he’d expected nor wanted. Why should his reasons matter? Why couldn’t she simply accept he’d taken her for an outing? Did she intend to question every aspect of their lives, to search for the motive behind each of his actions?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a quick movement that caught his attention. Her fingers flew over her cheek like the fluttering wings of a butterfly gathering dew. Only in her case, it was the dampness of her tears. Had he ever known any woman who wept so easily yet tried so hard to hide it?

He removed his glove, leaned over, and with his knuckle, captured the tear dangling from her eyelash. She really did have incredibly long lashes. He skimmed his little finger across her cheek, astonished by its softness. He was accustomed to touching lily-white skin. For some reason, he had not expected golden brown to feel like velvet. “You overlooked a tear, sweeting.”

“I’m sorry. I had no right to question you like that. I did enjoy the afternoon. It was very nice—”

He pressed his finger to her lips, full, warm. No
lies. He wondered how she’d accept the truth of it. “I don’t welcome the prospect of bedding a woman with whom I have only spent a few hours. I thought you might share the same misgivings. I simply thought it would make things less awkward if we spent a little time together.”

The corners of her mouth lifted, carrying her smile into her eyes, and he realized they were extremely expressive mahogany pools. Dark, rich, covered by a sheen of tears that only served to bring them more depth.

“Thank you.”

The magnitude of gratitude in her voice humbled him.

“It was my pleasure.” Surprised to discover he had, indeed, spoken the truth.

“How was your outing?”

Lounging on a chair in the sitting room, Georgina set aside her book as she heard the concern reflected in her father’s voice. She knew that as much as he wanted her to have her dream of children, he also worried about her.

He was so dear to her, this man who inhabited her farthest memory. He’d worked in the fields beside her before the war had taken him away and given him opportunities to pursue. He’d been her confidant, her advisor, and her tutor.

He sat in the chair beside her. Leaning over, she cradled his ruddy cheek. His parchment-like skin was a part of aging. His eyes drooped as though he was eternally sad. She loved him with an intensity
that sometimes caused an ache in her chest.

“Papa, I know you were hoping he and I would get along well, and we seemed to. Something about him reminds me of a stray dog. I can’t really explain what it is.”

“You always did have a soft heart where strays were concerned.”

Yes, she had. She hadn’t expected to feel as though Devon was a stray, though, and until this moment she hadn’t realized he did have that aura about him. A man ensconced in his society who didn’t really look as though he belonged. Was that the reason he diligently followed the rules? So he could feel as though he fitted in?

She wasn’t opposed to rules. They had their place. She simply didn’t think they needed to be followed as stringently as her fiancé did.

“So you like him,” her father announced, cutting into her thoughts.

She cocked her head to the side. “He intrigues me.”

A true assessment of her feelings. She found herself thinking about him constantly. She had this wickedly delightful urge to break through his reserve and force him to run through fields of clover barefoot. To laugh. She’d never heard him release the deep laughter that made a man’s chest rumble and his sides ache. Laughter loud and joyous enough to bring tears to his eyes until they rolled down his cheeks.

Devon Sheridan, Lord Huntingdon, was going to be a challenge. Society would insist their marriage
be dull, but Georgina thought perhaps it had the potential not to be.

“I think he’s a good man, Papa.”

“’Course he is, gal. I wouldn’t have given him permission to call on you if I thought otherwise.”

He scrunched up his face. “He’s a bit stuffy, though. But you can ease him out of that. He’s going to fall in love with you, Gina—”

“Papa.” She separated dreams into possible dreams and unobtainable dreams. She took the unobtainable ones to bed with her to carry into her sleep. Devon loving her fell into that category. “I’m sure he’ll like me, but love—”

“Can’t have love without liking, gal. That’s what love really is. Liking someone so much you’d give up every dream you ever dreamed just to see that she touched hers.”

“Is that what you did for Mama?” she asked softly.

“My dreams changed when I met your mother. That’s part of love, too. Always changing but always constant.”