by Cheryl Bolen
Hector shifted forward to stare at her, his expression grave. “If Mother and Father are spirits as you continue to claim, and watching over us as well, then surely they’ve heard our itinerary many times from your own lips and will have hitched a ride.”
Meg wished that might be so. Did ghosts ever take a holiday? “That is how they met. Father climbed into the wrong carriage, and they fell in love.”
“By the time they reached the fourth turnpike,” Hector said softly.
“Love at first sight.” Meg wanted so much to believe in the impossible right now. Even though she had Hector still, she felt very alone without her parents. There was no one to tell her secrets to and no one who gave her theirs to keep. Two years of death, first her mother and then her father, and the constant period of mourning had been hard to bear for everyone. Her closest friends had married and moved away to start new lives with their husbands already. She had lost touch with all but a few.
Hector had been away in London when their father had died, but he had rushed home to be with her for the burial. He had not stayed long, traveling back to London to meet with Lord Clement while she had mourned alone.
And now Hector insisted she must travel with him. In the winter!
“Cheer up, old thing,” Hector said. “Who knows what might happen during the holidays.”
Nothing good, she suspected. Not if Lord Clement was anywhere in the vicinity of her brother. She might not see much of Hector either. That was not how she wanted to see out the year.
Meg huddled farther beneath the warm furs, trying to resign herself to the fate her brother had forced upon her. “I’m still in mourning,” she reminded him. “Even if you forbid me to be.”
He shoved his satchel aside roughly. “It was past time!”
Meg glared at him. “Papa deserved to be mourned for a full year as we did with Mother. Six months is hardly long enough.”
“Enough is enough,” he cried, smacking his fist on his thigh. “You will do as I say, and be grateful I care enough to take you to visit my friends at all. I am the head of our family and you will enjoy yourself.” Her brother scowled. “I insist you make merry.”
Meg glared at him. “You cannot make me pretend.”
Hector pinched the bridge of his nose, a sure sign she was trying his patience. “You will not embarrass me by spoiling Christmas for Lord Clement and me.”
Meg pressed her lips together tightly, affronted that Hector thought more of Lord Clement’s happiness than hers. “You don’t seem to care what I want anymore,” she grumbled even though knowing she was being difficult. This trip had been a tax on her nerves. She’d barely slept last night in yet another strange bed.
She slumped in her seat as her eyes pricked with the threat of tears. There were days she did not like her brother. He gambled away his fortune and spent far too many nights out in society. His improved situation had gone to his head. She’d also heard gossip he had a woman in London too—the sort Mama had whispered must never be acknowledged.
“I do care. Very much, and it is high time I did right by you and brought you out in society.” Hector nodded. “Gentleman have to see you in order to ask to marry you.”
Meg blushed at the idea of marrying a stranger. Hector was all for that. “You speak such nonsense. No one will notice me here.”
“On the contrary, Lady Vyne is sure to host at least one dinner during our stay. There’s a village not far from the manor house, too, and we will be here until after Twelfth Night don’t forget. Anything can happen in that amount of time.”
Meg turned up her nose. “That village has an alehouse, I assume?”
Hector grinned widely. “Every village tends to have at least one. Gentlemen come for miles around and some of them call on Lady Vyne, and Clement, too. They will assist with any introductions if they deem the connection suitable.”
He had an answer for everything. “As if Lord Clement would stir himself on my behalf.”
Hector chuckled. “He’s a good friend.”
“I thought I was that to you once,” Meg grumbled.
“You’re worse. You’re my unmarried little sister. It is required that I adore you,” Hector teased, grinning as he tapped her nose. “Even when you are out of sorts. If the signs of merriment bother you so much, just try not to scowl at everyone for the duration of our stay. Don’t spoil Christmas for the rest of us. Mother and Father would hate to know you were so miserable.”
She heaved a heavy sigh. Hector was probably right, but Mother and Father had made this time of year special. She had hoped to do the same but for Hector instead. “I will do my best. To honor their memory.”
Hector turned his attention back to the view. “Excellent.”
Meg glanced out the foggy windowpane, too. It wasn’t Hector’s way to let grief smother his good spirits. He had lived away from home for a long time. He’d not borne the worry of caring for either of their parents as they had declined.
He meant this trip as a way to end their mourning.
Meg might never end hers, no matter what happened. Her life had not been the same since her mother and then her father had passed, and it could never improve.
Frustrated that her breath had fogged the window again, she rubbed a circle on the pane with her fist and glared at the rolling fields of white powder until she realized she was looking down at their destination.
The manor on The Vynes estate, a widespread yellow stone structure, sat at the end of a long, winding road. Snowy mounds hiding what might be garden shrubbery dotted the landscape, bordered by low stone walls around the dwelling. But everything that could be pretty or green was hidden beneath inches of snow. There was no warmth here.
Meg desperately missed the rolling blue of the sea and the sound of crashing waves upon the shore near her home. It had been three days since she’d been bundled into this carriage, and two uncomfortable nights sleeping at posting houses along the way.
She focused her gaze back on the nearing house with a sense of foreboding. The family they were visiting were a good bit wealthier than they were, and it was a larger family, too. Lord Clement had a mother and father, Lord and Lady Vyne, a younger pair of unmarried sisters, and an infant brother as well. It was going to be a noisy few weeks in the country, and awkward to be with another family.
But Hector grinned as the carriage began to travel around the circular drive that would bring them to a stop before an impressive pair of oak doors. “Ready to dash inside and begin to make merry?”
“If my legs haven’t gone numb yet.” She smiled with false brightness. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
But there was little chance this was going to be a happy Christmas. Meg was sure it might just be the worst ever.
Chapter 2
Otis considered the cards dealt him and then placed them face down on the comforter. “Your hand.”
His father, the seventh Earl of Vyne, smirked as he drew the winnings across the bed. Father didn’t even try to hide his glee anymore when he won the games they played—even when it was just a few pounds. “As always, Clement.”
If only Vyne knew the truth of the matter. Otis played the part of a dutiful son but he kept his feelings about gambling and his father’s lucky streaks strictly to himself. Otis was an expert card player. He could win the hands that mattered and lose others at will. But Father’s health was declining rapidly, so Otis chose to let him feel lucky at least in this. “Another game?”
Father considered the suggestion, long and hard, and then shook his gray head. “I’ve reclaimed enough of my rightful inheritance back from you for one day.”
Otis’ inheritance, left to him by his grandfather in an unbreakable will, was a continual source of friction between them. Father had been unable to successfully challenge it, and he’d been furious with Otis ever since.
The fact that Otis’ personal fortune now exceeded all expectations was unforgivable to Vyne. The earl had expected that money to be his upon the last earl’
s demise, and went out of his way to try to get every penny back.
Otis only played against Father, and lost often, so he might not be expelled from The Vynes again. He’d been banished to London for six months after the reading of the will. In that time, Father had made Mother’s life hell, blaming her for everything and anything he did not like. For Mother’s sake, and the happiness of his siblings, Otis had pledged to dower his sisters and committed additional funds to his younger brother’s education.
Those small measures were all the concessions Grandfather’s will had allowed Otis to make. He could give nothing to his father outright even if he had wanted to.
However, making those small commitments had been enough to be forgiven a little and allowed to return to the home he loved more than any other place in England.
Otis wished to keep a close eye on his siblings, and his mother, too. Mother was forbidden to leave the estate now, and so were the children. Father controlled everyone else here, even from the sick room, with an iron fist. Otis would gladly lose a little more money every now and then to keep the tyrant happy. “What shall we do then?”
Father’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been thinking about family.”
Otis kept his face impassive as he waited for him to continue. Family was a topic that interested him greatly.
Father sat back, one thumb poised on the tip of his chin. “You do not ask the direction my thoughts have traveled, my son?”
The last time they had talked of “family” a sister’s marriage had been arranged out of the blue in a fit of spite. Thankfully, the groom had been a decent enough fellow and had met with his sister’s approval in the end. “Yes, of course I do.”
“You must marry.”
So Father had finally broached the subject Otis had been expecting for some time. Otis was already prepared. “I know.”
Otis was six and twenty. Father was four and fifty. Mortality had become Father’s greatest fear in recent years. “The succession must continue without interruption,” Father announced pompously. “Unless you intend for your brother to inherit the estate.”
Otis’ brother was still a babe really. “I said I will marry.”
“I want you settled before the season has begun,” Lord Vyne insisted.
Otis sat back in his chair—stunned by the rush but unwilling to show it. “Wouldn’t it be simpler for me to head to London for the season and choose from the cream of the crop?”
Father’s expression grew sly. “My son has no reason to compete with the rabble of society. Not when I already have a well-dowered filly picked out for him.”
Father believed that Otis shared his taste in women. Otis had quickly learned to play into that delusion over the years, but he would not when it came to choosing a wife. “I’ve no intention of competing with anyone. The ladies would be coming to me, not I to them, I’m sure.”
Father grunted in agreement. “Be that as it may, I have taken it upon myself to issue an invitation for the holiday. My acquaintance has a suitable daughter in need of a husband. The family lacks a title but the girl’s dowry is appropriately large. You will find her to your liking.”
Good grief, Father was well advanced with this scheme. Even from bed he would try to direct Otis’ life. Father had a number of friends. Otis loathed each and every one of them. Marrying one of their daughters was not in his best interests. “What is the chit’s name?”
“Does it matter?”
Otis winced. He held women in the highest regard, while his father did not. “It does if I need to address her.”
Father sat back with a sigh. “One of Milne’s girls.”
Milne was probably the best of the bunch. New money. Ambitious. Someone Otis had never truly warmed to though. Otis had honestly expected Father to suggest some duke’s younger daughter or a widowed countess as his wife. The Milne chit he’d met was pretty, intelligent, but there were a few complications attached to her that did not suit Otis at all. “I think I recall meeting one. Dark hair, brown eyes. She had a fondness for yapping terriers if I recall correctly.”
Otis was allergic to dogs, and Father knew it.
He frowned for a moment and then nodded. “If she is to be your countess, she must give up her small companions,” Father decreed.
“Hardly kind.”
“Only a fool pays attention to what a woman wants,” Father claimed.
Otis was probably a fool then in Father’s estimation. He stood, aiming to appear nonchalant, but his mind was racing as he took a few steps away from the bed toward the tall windows. He would not agree to marry just anyone Father chose. He may not know what exactly he wanted in a wife but possessing a large dowry held no lure for him.
Otis glanced out the window and caught sight of an unfamiliar traveling chariot pulling up before the manor. Blast. Was that the Milnes arriving already?
If so, Otis had little time to come up with a plan to turn them aside. Since Father’s bed was too far away from the window to notice his guests had arrived yet, there was a chance Otis could pretend he hadn’t, either.
As much as he was loath to leave the estate so suddenly, retreat might be his best option for the immediate future. He needed time to think of whom he might make a match with. If he could name a worthy alternative, he might yet have his way without too much of a struggle. He could leave for a day or two, avoid the Milnes, while he considered his options. Mother would understand his absence if he explained his reasons for going.
“I suggest you win Milne over first. I wager The Vynes you’ll have a bride in hand before Christmas Day arrives.”
Father’s propensity for making wagers was why Grandfather had skipped over his eldest son in favor of leaving everything not entailed to a grandson—to Otis. Grandfather had valued Otis’ intelligence and believed he would protect the family from the worst of Vyne’s excesses. “This is not a decision I can make without due consideration.”
“That is why they are coming to visit,” Father insisted. “You will get to know one another very well indeed in the next days. If you are still unsure, test her mettle in the bedchamber if you must.”
Otis stilled, disturbed by Father’s suggestion. “I will do no such thing.”
“Do you require further incentive to do as duty requires?” Father’s eyes narrowed.
Just how low could Father get? “What are you suggesting?”
“As a reward for taking a bride, you may take your mother to the seaside for the summer,” Father offered.
Father wielded absolute control over his family. He must want this alliance very badly indeed. “Mother would enjoy that, but only if the children could join her there, too.”
It was a lot to hope for, but the more Otis considered the prize of the wager, Mother’s freedom, the more he warmed to the idea of making such a deal. But only if the circumstances could be in his favor, too. Otis knew the Milne girl only a little and had never considered her in the role of wife before. Bedding a wife before any wedding, while reprehensible the way Father described it, might have been possible if they liked each other and he’d proposed first.
But a few days was not enough time in his opinion to decide on a bride, even if this was a chance to help his mother escape Father’s control. If he pretended to consider Miss Milne and could prove she did not suit him, or the family, he would be free to choose another later. But he needed time for that.
“I’ll take that wager,” Otis said slowly. “On the condition that I am allowed an appropriate length of time for a proper courtship before any marriage takes place.”
“What do you need to court her for? Just wed her and be done with it.”
“No. I must know that the lady I marry feels more affection for me than my title.”
Father snorted. “Engage a mistress and you will have a surfeit of attention.”
“Mistresses love money, not the men they bed.” He pursed his lips, disliking this discussion immensely. “Those are my terms.”
“Don’t be diffic
ult about this.”
“I have made a reasonable request so I may choose the best candidate to become a countess one day. The honor of the family demands it.” Otis raised one brow. “Are you afraid that time will prove you’ve misjudged Miss Milne’s suitability?”
Father glared. “Her dowry alone is worth the inconvenience of making a match without affection.”
“Not to me.” Otis shrugged. “But there’s always London in the new year.”
“No. You will wed Miss Milne. You have until Twelfth Night to propose.”
Otis would not risk his own chance at happiness. “It cannot be done.”
Father never liked to compromise, and his eyes narrowed. “You will court her.”
“I can, but I make no promises about proposing.”
Father stared at him. “Let me put it this way—if you fail to marry within three months, you’ll never set foot here again until I’m dead.”
Otis straightened. “No!”
Father smirked. “Exile, or a marriage in three months so you can take your mother and siblings away for as long as you’d like?”
Otis was thunderstruck. The price of failure was too bloody high.
Father extended his hand, his eyes alight with glee as he waited for Otis to accept his final terms. “Which is it to be?”
Otis, however, strode to the door and yanked it open. The footman jumped back at least a foot. “Fetch witnesses.”
Father had never reneged on a bet, but there was always a first time. There must be written proof to ensure Mother could leave the estate when Otis tied the knot. Otis wouldn’t hesitate to blackmail Father with it to get his way, if necessary.
When the steward entered, Otis explained what he wanted written down. The steward was pale by the end, but Otis asked for two copies to be made of the original. They signed all of them, and Otis tucked his copy into his pocket for safekeeping.
Thankfully, Father was so confident of winning that he never noticed the omission of Miss Milne’s name in the terms of the wager. Otis was still free to marry anyone he chose, and still win that bet, but he only had three months to do it. Since that was the case, he would be heading to London after the holiday. Unfortunately, that meant he would have to meet with Miss Milne first.