Heiress Gone Wild

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Heiress Gone Wild Page 1

by Laura Lee Guhrke




  Dedication

  For my editor, Erika Tsang, who always goes the extra mile to help me make my books as good as they can be. Thank you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  By Laura Lee Guhrke

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  A prestigious girls’ finishing school in White Plains, New York, was the last place on earth Jonathan Deverill would ever have expected to find himself.

  Granted, he’d been living on the American continent for nigh on ten years, but most of that time had been spent on the Western frontier, among people who had little to do with genteel society.

  The office of Forsyte Academy’s headmistress was a plain room of distempered gray walls and Shaker furnishings, and though it was far less ostentatious than the upper middle-class British household in which he’d been raised, the watercolors on the walls and the milk-glass vases filled with purple lilacs told him he was in the room of a lady. Given the man he’d become and the life he’d been living, this was the sort of room he seldom had cause to visit.

  “So, Mr. Deverill,” Mrs. Forsyte’s brisk voice broke into his observations, “you have arrived at last.”

  Her tone implied that by not arriving sooner, he had somehow failed to live up to expectations. Ah, well. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “My apologies for the delay, ma’am,” he said politely.

  With her steel-gray hair and firm mouth, the headmistress was an indomitable-looking woman, but she inclined her head in gracious acceptance of his apology. “I assume you wish to see Miss McGann at once?”

  “I do, yes.”

  Despite her rebuke about his less-than-prompt arrival, she seemed in no hurry to comply with his reason for coming. Setting aside the card he’d given her, she sat down behind her desk and gestured for him to take the chair opposite. “I have broken the news to her of her father’s death. It was no surprise to me, of course, for I have known about his illness ever since he went into that sanitorium in Colorado eighteen months ago, but Mr. McGann insisted that his daughter not be informed. An understandable position, I suppose. Consumption is a terrible disease.”

  “Yes.” A curt reply, but he did not want to talk about or even think about those final days in Denver, when he’d stood by helpless and watched his best friend die.

  “And you are now Miss McGann’s legal guardian.” She looked him over, a disapproving frown drawing her brows together. “You’re younger than I expected.”

  It was clear she thought him unable to look after a child, and who could blame her? He and Billy McGann had spent their time and made their money in the rough-and-tumble of America’s mining trade. Of all the people he could think of to look after a little girl, he seemed the most inappropriate choice possible.

  “You must understand, Mr. Deverill, that I have, in a sense, fulfilled the role you now intend to take on. Her father tasked me with that responsibility when he placed the girl here.”

  “Of course.”

  The headmistress’s shrewd blue eyes narrowed, making him appreciate why she and her school had such an excellent reputation. Those eyes, he’d guess, didn’t miss much. “I have done my best to ensure that she is safeguarded from rogues, rapscallions, and confidence men.”

  Despite the tragic circumstances that had brought him here, Jonathan’s mouth twitched a little. “I understand.”

  “Mr. McGann was a very rich man, and news of his death has now appeared in the newspapers. How can I trust you are who you say you are? Anyone can print a card.”

  “Quite so.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out the sheaf of papers that had been among Billy’s things, an exact facsimile of the will his friend had drafted eighteen months ago with the New York legal firm of Jessop, Gainsborough, and Smythe. “Would this satisfy you?”

  Mrs. Forsyte took the document from his outstretched hand and proceeded to read every word. “This verifies who you are and confirms what Mr. Jessop told me,” she said as she handed the will back to him, “but I confess, I’m no less astonished.”

  She was not the only one. Until a month ago, Jonathan hadn’t even known his friend and partner of seven years had a daughter, much less that the other man’s will put him in charge of the child. “No more astonished than I, madam,” he said with feeling.

  “Forgive me for being blunt, but a young, unmarried man in this role seems most unsuitable. And,” she added before he could heartily concur with her opinion, “I would not have thought the girl in need of a guardian to take charge of her. Not at this point.”

  Her emphasis on the word indicated that she might fear Billy had thought Forsyte Academy hadn’t been taking proper care of his daughter and that Jonathan was here to remove her. He hastened to reassure the headmistress.

  “I’ve no doubt that Mr. McGann had full faith in you and your school, as do I. Indeed,” he said as he refolded the will and returned it to his jacket pocket, “my visit today is little more than a formality—”

  “A formality?” she cut in, her gray eyebrows lifting in surprise.

  “I am on my way to London for a brief visit with my sisters, then I am traveling on to Johannesburg. Mr. McGann had business interests in South Africa that I must see to. I expect to be there for some time.”

  “I see.” She fell silent, considering this information. “You do not intend to take the girl with you, I trust?”

  He shook his head. “I am a stranger to her. Uprooting her, removing her from the only home she has ever known on the strength of one meeting would be traumatic, even cruel. And what would I do with her? She cannot accompany me to the mining towns of South Africa.”

  “Certainly not,” the headmistress agreed, her voice prim.

  “Therefore, I think it would be best for her to remain here for the time being. If that is acceptable?”

  The question seemed to amuse Mrs. Forsyte, for her stiff, pursed lips relaxed into a hint of a smile. “I fear it might not be acceptable to Miss McGann. Be that as it may,” she went on before he could point out that her pupil, being a child, didn’t have much say in the matter, “your duty to her is more than a mere formality, Mr. Deverill.”

  “I only meant that my purpose today is to meet her and assure myself that she is settled and happy. For the present, I cannot see that much else is required of me.”

  “No? By the terms of the will, she has inherited a considerable fortune, a fortune you are to oversee.” He could have pointed out that his own monetary worth was equal to that of his late partner, and he had little reason and no desire to embezzle the child’s inheritance, but he suspected such assurances wouldn’t impress Mrs. Forsyte.

  “As you have read,” he said instead, “the money is in trust. No one can touch the capital, not even me. And though I am to manage her investments as I did her father’s, there is little I can do without Mr. Jessop’s approval, for he is also a trustee. Miss McGann’s fortune will continue to be protected.”

  “I wasn�
��t thinking of the money itself, but of its effect upon her.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  Mrs. Forsyte leaned forward, folding her hands atop her desk. “I have been a headmistress for many years, Mr. Deverill. Some of the girls who come here are accustomed to money and what it means because they are raised with it. Others are not so aware. Miss McGann is in the latter category. She is not what I would call naïve; nonetheless, her father wished her shielded as much as possible from the temptations and evils of this world, and I have attempted to accommodate his wishes to the best of my ability. She’s known for some time that she is set to be a very rich woman one day, but her life here has not, I fear, prepared her for the reality of being an heiress.”

  “As her guardian, I’m not sure I’m prepared for that reality either, madam. But I shall do my best.”

  “You will have the assistance of your sisters, I presume?”

  Jonathan didn’t see how his sisters came into it at this juncture, nor was he sure how great a role they would eventually play, but he saw no point in saying so. “You know of my sisters?”

  “Mr. Jessop has informed me. Your eldest sister is a duchess, I believe, and your second sister a viscountess?”

  “Yes, and I assure you that I will be discussing the girl’s future with both my sisters while I am in England. Now, may I see her?”

  Seeming satisfied at last, she stood up, bringing him to his feet as well. “If you will wait here,” she said as she circled her desk and started for the door, “I will send Miss McGann to you.”

  She departed, leaving him alone, and Jonathan walked to the window. It was a fine May morning, and as he stared out over the manicured grounds, watching girls in pinafores strolling with their teachers, he could understand why Billy had selected this place to house and care for his daughter. Given its secluded location, high stone walls, and no-nonsense headmistress, it was as much like a convent as it was a school, and a far more appropriate situation for a motherless young girl than anything her father could have provided for her.

  What Jonathan could not understand was why Billy had chosen him to be the girl’s guardian.

  In their seven years as friends and partners, they’d done plenty of drinking, gambling, skirt-chasing, and hard, hard living. Neither of them had ever expressed the desire to settle down.

  Billy, obviously, had tried domestic life and failed at it. For his own part, Jonathan had abandoned any notions of settling down the day he’d left England, and during the past decade, the three years he’d spent mining silver was the longest he’d stayed in one place.

  On the other hand, the two men had trusted each other like brothers. They’d had no choice, really. When a pair of men stumbled on the biggest deposit of silver ore since the Comstock Lode, protecting it from claim jumpers and ruthless mining conglomerates had required mutual and absolute trust.

  Then, too, there was the money to be considered. They’d pulled millions of dollars of silver ore out of that mine in Idaho, and since Billy had no money sense, Jonathan had been the one to invest their profits. He’d done a pretty fair job of it, so the decision to put him in charge of the girl’s trust fund made sense, he supposed.

  And Jonathan knew his background and upbringing had played a significant part. Billy had said as much, expressing the hope his daughter could one day benefit from Jonathan’s connections in British society. But how valuable were those connections? He’d been away ten years, for heaven’s sake. And it wasn’t as if he ever intended to live in that world again.

  He stared down at the girls and their teachers below, and he could only be grateful he didn’t have to take charge of the child straightaway. She’d be in school here for several more years, giving him plenty of time to plan, make arrangements—

  “Mr. Deverill?”

  Jonathan turned from the window, but instead of the pigtailed schoolgirl he’d expected to find, he saw a woman of about twenty standing in the doorway, a woman of such remarkable beauty that he sucked in a startled breath.

  Her skin had the luminescent quality of pearls, but its texture looked as soft as silk. Her hair, piled in a mass of curls atop her head, was a bright, glorious red that flamed like fire in the sunlit room. Her eyes were large and dark and surrounded by thick brown lashes, and her generous mouth was wide, lush, and rose-pink. In the ascetic severity of the headmistress’s office, she seemed vibrantly alive.

  The severe black coat and skirt she wore were in keeping with her surroundings, though they did her beauty little justice, and when he spied the monogram on her lapel, he realized she must be a teacher here.

  She had no pupil in tow, however, and when he looked past her, he saw no child peeking shyly at him from behind her skirts or waiting in the corridor beyond.

  “Mr. Deverill?”

  Her voice returned his gaze to her face and his attention to the matter at hand. “I am Jonathan Deverill,” he answered, frowning in puzzlement. “But I think there has been some mistake. I have come to see Miss Marjorie McGann.”

  “So you have,” she agreed, laughing. “And here I am.”

  He blinked, taken aback. Her words could have only one meaning, and yet, they made no sense. But as he noted again the rich red of her hair and the deep brown of her eyes, her resemblance to Billy suddenly hit him like a punch in the gut.

  On his deathbed, Billy had told Jonathan of Marjorie’s existence for the first time, begging his partner to protect and look after his little girl. But as Jonathan’s gaze traveled down over the generous curves of her figure, he appreciated in chagrin that Marjorie McGann was not, in any way, shape, or form, a little girl.

  “Hell,” he muttered, his genteel, ladylike surroundings forgotten, his tongue lapsing into the crude language of the Western mining towns and saloons he’d left behind. “God damn and holy hell.”

  Chapter 2

  He wasn’t at all what she’d imagined. With little information to go on, Marjorie had toyed over the years with two images of her father’s British partner—one a silver-haired gentleman in tweeds and brogues, with pale eyes, a horsey face, and a weak chin, the other a burly mountain man with grizzled hair and a graying beard who’d cast aside all traces of his heritage, wore flannel shirts and Levi’s pants, and cursed like the miner he’d become.

  This man was neither of those. Or perhaps, he was a bit of both?

  He did curse like a miner, as his oaths of a moment ago had made clear, though his British accent made the words seem more elegant than profane to Marjorie’s American ears. He was a big man, quite tall, with wide shoulders and a powerful chest suited to a man of the mountains, but he was lean rather than burly, with a tapering torso, narrow hips, and long legs. He wore neither flannel and denim nor tweeds and brogues, but instead an impeccably-cut, rather worn suit of charcoal-gray wool. His hair was neither fair nor dark, but halfway between, like tobacco—thick, short strands of dark brown shot with gold, and without a touch of gray.

  Her gaze moved to his face, a younger one than she’d expected, but not the least bit horsey. Instead, his countenance was surprisingly handsome, with chiseled planes, an aquiline nose, tanned skin, and tawny hazel eyes. Clean-shaven, his face displayed a strong, stubborn jaw and a chin that was anything but weak.

  That, she reflected, studying him, might be a problem.

  “You’re Billy’s daughter? You are?”

  Marjorie blinked, startled by the disbelief in his voice. “Yes, of course. What?” she added as he gave a laugh, for she didn’t see what he found amusing.

  “You’re not—” He broke off and shook his head, rubbing four fingers over his forehead as if confounded. “You’re not quite what I was expecting.”

  “I could say the same,” she countered with feeling.

  “I’m sure,” he said, lifting his head, any trace of humor vanishing. “Since I’m the last person your father ought to have chosen to take care of you.”

  Until she’d met him, Marjorie would have disag
reed, for the fact that her guardian came from British society fit remarkably well with her own plans. But now that she’d met Mr. Deverill in the flesh, she wondered if he might be right.

  Having a guardian at all was bad enough, but she’d hoped hers would at least be easy to manage. Sadly, as her gaze roamed Mr. Deverill’s strong, lean face and came to rest again on the hard line of his jaw, she feared this man would prove as manageable as a recalcitrant mule.

  “I didn’t realize girls your age were allowed to remain in finishing school,” he said, bringing Marjorie out of these ruminations.

  “I’m not a girl,” she corrected with asperity as she came into the room. “I’m a woman.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, his voice grim, his blunt brown lashes lowering as he glanced down. “So you are. Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell me that.”

  “Oh, I see,” she murmured, enlightened. “You were expecting braids and pinafores?”

  “Something like that. Why are you still in school? Don’t young ladies have to graduate at some point?”

  “I did, nearly three years ago. I have been a teacher here since then.”

  “A practical course to choose.”

  “Very practical,” she agreed, the admission bitter on her tongue. “Though hardly a choice, since I had nowhere else to go. My father, you see, did not want me with him.”

  “I doubt it was a matter of what he wanted, but of what was necessary. The life your father led wasn’t appropriate for a young girl.”

  In his infrequent letters, her father had given her that same excuse, and for over a decade, she’d believed it, sure that once she was grown up, things would be different. He’d want her with him then, she’d thought. They would be together again, like a real family.

  Upon her graduation, however, her inquiry about joining him had been met with the same tired excuse couched in a new form. No longer was the life he led not appropriate for a young girl—no, it became inappropriate for a young woman, and with that new qualification, Marjorie had finally realized the brutal truth. Her father did not want her, and he never would, and all his talk of being together someday had been nothing but a pacifying lie.

 

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