HeirAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  A flurry of gold and white satin bull-rushed him. It was a dazzling display of fabric and flesh as Hazel—at least he hoped it was Hazel, for he could not be certain given how fast it all happened—leapt into the air to twine her arms about his neck and her legs about his waist. Before he could speak, she set her mouth to his. With wild abandon, she kissed him.

  The stray hair strands must have had a more potent effect than he anticipated. He tightened his hold on her, a tad challenging given the width of the panniers, and explored the haven of her lips. He was a man starved of his wife’s affection.

  When she released her hold and stood on her own feet, she said, “You took ever so long. I had my apology speech memorized last week, but I’ve already forgotten it.”

  Quizzing her with knitted brow, he said, “I’ve been laboring under the impression that it was I who owed you the apology.”

  “Yes, well, I know when I’m in the wrong. After talking with my father, I realized you had no part in the plan other than to agree to the marriage, a decision I firmly believe you made because you were helpless to guard against my stunning beauty and charming wit.”

  “Ah, you’ve found me out.” He returned to her lips, lingering but a moment. “With all forgiven, I suppose I needn’t prove my business prowess anymore.”

  “If you don’t tell me why you went to London, I’ll retract my apology.” Her scold was playful, punctuated with a moue.

  She led him hand in hand to the chairs by the hearth, a warm fire blazing to heat his frozen limbs from the ride.

  “I’m afraid,” he said once they were comfortably seated, their fingers laced together, “this is a serious conversation. One that requires decisions on your part.”

  “Oh.” She tensed. “That sounds ominous.”

  “No, promising, rather. Let me think how to begin. I, too, had a speech, one to convince you I’m not a black-hearted villain, but if we can skip that…” He paused in case she wanted to interject. She did not. “I can begin at the catalyst of the London trip, which, in full disclosure, took a far different direction than I planned.”

  Harold caressed the backs of her fingers with his free hand, wishing they were in their shared sitting room.

  “After you left, I told my father I was leaving in pursuit of you and would not return. Ever. My plan was first to go to London and see that my father had no access to anything within the marriage settlement. Then I would come to you. I intended to propose we let a cottage on the coast.”

  Hazel thought for a minute, then said, “I thought we were poverty-stricken. How would we let a cottage?” More to herself than to him, she said, “You left your father…left your home…for me.”

  “Ah, allow me to clarify. I learned in my previous trip to London, the one I took after we married in order to secure the investment for my father, that the contents of the settlement are mine, not my father’s. He intended to use the dowry as part of the investment, but I was able to keep it since I had financial right to it. All else in the settlement is ours, as well, including the percentage of your father’s earnings. My point is letting the cottage was the direction I intended to propose. You must decide if it remains the direction. There’s been a change of plans to offer alternatives. I entrust all choices to you, Hazel.”

  She gaped before asking, “What changed?”

  “My father had a, shall we say, episode of hysteria.”

  Hazel gasped.

  “He accompanied me to London—”

  “You did not have him committed!” She wrenched her hand from his and covered her heart.

  “Rest assured, I did not. He is not incapacitated and maintains all his faculties. He was…distraught. I will say that even if he had been incapacitated, I would have sought a different avenue. Declaring him as such would have involved the Crown. One does not commit a peer of the realm without repercussion.”

  “If he isn’t well, why did he go to London with you?”

  Harold retrieved her hand, lacing their fingers once more. “We explored our options with the family solicitor. Namely, how to stop him from making poor decisions and keep the creditors at bay. The solution we chose was to name me as asset trustee and beneficiary.”

  “That means…what exactly?”

  “I control all his assets. All assets. From money to furniture. A trustee need only be eighteen rather than one and twenty, enabling us to make this happen now rather than waiting for my twenty-first birthday in March. In the trust agreement, we ensured he, the settlor, has no direct access outside of what I grant. You’ve been named my successor, as both trustee and beneficiary, should aught happen to me.”

  “Me?”

  “You. Would you be bored silly if I show you the agreement and accounts later?”

  “Never!” Hazel squeezed his hand. “I don’t think I have a head for numbers, but I want to learn. If you’ll teach me.”

  He smiled, beyond pleased that she had not objected to being involved in the financials.

  “My father,” he continued, “has entrusted me with everything. I am the decision maker now in what happens with the estate and where the money is spent. But I hope we can make the decisions together, you and I.”

  Her eyes sparkled. While he may not have needed to prove his trustworthiness, he hoped he had done so anyway.

  “We have decisions to make now,” he said, “if it’s not too soon. Our only monetary asset is your dowry, but we do have the annual percentage of your father’s estate profits promised to us. One option, should you not wish to return to Trelowen or see my father, is to use the dowry to let a cottage. Perhaps here on the coast near your family? I can then use this first year’s percentage of profits to rehire the steward so that while we’re living elsewhere, I’m still restoring the estate. With the steward, we can prioritize. The home farm needs to generate income, for starters. The tenant homes need repairs. New homes need to be prepared to attract more tenant families and farmers. New farming equipment is needed. The list is lengthy, I’m sorry to say.”

  Rather than her eyes glazing over as he expected, she listened, absorbing his words and considering their meaning.

  “Another option is to return to Trelowen and live in the dower house. We’d be on the estate but away from my father. We could apply the dowry to the estate, and I could redirect Mr. Trethow’s income back to him.”

  Hazel interrupted. “I realize you have a plethora of thoughtful possibilities to present, but I needn’t hear more. I do have a say in what we decide?”

  “Of course. That’s the point, my love.”

  “Splendid. Then this is what I want to do. We return home. We use the dowry to hire the steward and purchase whatever we need to make the estate prosperous. We keep the entire percentage of my father’s income from now until forever.”

  Harold leaned back, eyes wide. “Bold decisions. Are you certain you—”

  “I should think I know my own mind, Mr. Hobbs.” She flashed him a saucy smile. “It’s my dowry, and I’m entrusting it to you to make wise choices for our home.”

  “You won’t be uncomfortable seeing my father again?”

  “As uncomfortable as seeing my own,” she said. “He’s no more guilty than my father. If I’ve already forgiven my own, I can certainly forgive my father-in-law. Hypocritical if not, don’t you think?”

  He did not think his father deserved her forgiveness and hoped hers appreciated its worth. He chose to remain silent on both matters.

  “To my mind,” she continued, “the only sin our fathers are guilty of is desperately wanting us to marry—and this is the narrative to which I will refer for the remainder of our days, so no talk of greedy and deceitful gentlemen. So determined for us to marry, my father gifted us with that lovely annual treat. I realize the damage of the lost investment, but he doesn’t have debts and has a lucrative estate. He made this decision to settle our ma
rriage. Besides, we need it more than he does. As for the entailment, we can worry about that later.”

  To say he was surprised would be an understatement.

  “What of Lord Collingwood’s debts?” she asked.

  Harold cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “As trustee, I am now liable for all debts my father incurred.”

  “Oh.”

  “Was that suitably dramatic?” he asked with a sly grin. “Now for the good news.”

  “Go on then. You have me on tenterhooks. I’m imagining creditors with battering rams. I’ll have you know that debtor’s chains would not match the bows on my dress.”

  “No battering rams or chains, love.” Harold lifted her hand and kissed her wrist. “The trust safeguards my father’s possessions, so creditors cannot take them in lieu of payment. The solicitor provided options for us to consider. For instance, if I name the creditors as partial beneficiaries to the trust, they will excuse a significant portion of the debts accrued. Another option is to request debt forgiveness. Since the assets are now in a trust, the creditors are likely to consider forgiveness. If four-fifths agree, then all are legally obligated to forgive.”

  “But wouldn’t those options insinuate bankruptcy, the very thing we want to avoid people knowing? If word spread, it would ruin the family’s reputation. And I’ll say now that I don’t like the idea of them being beneficiaries, even partially so.”

  Harold chuckled. His wife had more of a head for business than he would have ever given her credit for, a characteristic he found exceedingly attractive. He kissed her wrist again, closing his eyes to inhale the floral scent on her skin. If it were not conceited, he liked to think she applied it for him.

  “What would you have us do?”

  “Well,” she said smartly, “for all anyone knows, we’re one of the wealthiest families in the West Country. Let’s keep it that way. We call on each of your father’s creditors to introduce—wait, no, they wouldn’t be overly fond of a woman talking business, so let’s make it you who calls on them, but you must tell me everything or I shall relegate you to the dower house without so much as a kiss. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, you call on each creditor to introduce yourself as the trustee. Assure them you want to keep the tabs and credit lines open. How else will we continue to host your mother’s parties? Give them a little something from the dowry as a good faith payment. We can use my father’s annual marriage gift to pay a little on each debt. Go on and kiss my cheek for being so clever.”

  He obeyed, smiling broadly when he leaned back. “Then that’s what we’ll do, my clever wife, but know that I’ll be having a word with my mother. No more extravagances. It’s one thing to maintain a reputation and quite another to spend money we need to recoup. I’ll not allow the debts to increase while we’re trying to decrease them.”

  “This steward you want to hire. He’s trustworthy?”

  Harold nodded. “The best. Taught me all I know about keeping accounts. Had my father listened to him from the beginning, we wouldn’t be in this situation. He’ll know what to do that will have the most impact on generating estate income.”

  “And Lord Collingwood is well?”

  “Well enough.”

  Harold tugged Hazel to him so he could kiss her soundly. He had far more pleasant ideas for their time together than talking about his father.

  The reunion he both anticipated and dreaded had gone better than he could have dreamed. While he aimed to entrust important decisions to her, she in turn had entrusted him with the contents of the marriage settlement. By doing so, she had given him the greatest of gifts: her trust.

  A voice broke their embrace.

  “It’s about time you pleasured my granddaughter.”

  Leaping apart, they turned to face the door.

  In unison, Harold and Hazel cried, “Nana!”

  When Hazel stepped over the threshold of Trelowen, she knew she was home. Never again would she think of her childhood abode as home. This was home. She breathed in the scents of timber and contentment.

  This arrival mirrored her first when she had attended the hunting party with her father, but this time, it was by her choice. After a lifetime of having decisions made for her, she had made the choices of what to do with the finances and where to live. Choosing Trelowen was an inexplicable moment of triumph. With a new sense of confidence, she ran a hand over the banister of the main staircase. Home.

  Harold approached her from behind and rested a hand to her back. “Upstairs,” he whispered.

  Hazel tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth, blushing with anticipation.

  The front door swung open to Lord and Lady Collingwood escorting Nana. She was chattering nonstop about her grand adventure to the cliffs.

  Hazel’s breath caught at the sight of Lord Collingwood. The baron did not look well, but she supposed he could have looked worse. Bags underlined his eyes. Fatigue lined his face. His shoulders rounded forward when he walked.

  Any expectation of apologies would forever be unfulfilled, she realized. He did not know she had overheard him, neither would he have cared if he did know. What apologies could he offer her anyway? His failing had been greed, little else. She only hoped he knew what a godsend was his son.

  When she looked up at Harold, he nodded his head in the direction of the stairs and waggled his eyebrows. Hazel glanced at the family. They were enthralled by their own conversation.

  One foot on the first step. Then another. She glanced back. No one paid them any mind. Hazel lifted the edge of her dress and scurried up the staircase, Harold following on her heels. She burst into her bedchamber, then spun around to receive Harold as he rushed in behind her, closing the door with his foot. He scooped her into his arms and showered her face with flirty kisses.

  Before they made it to the edge of her bed, she said, “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you,” he said, nuzzling her cheek.

  “Good. Because I love you. And…I have a request.”

  He moaned his response as he kissed her neck.

  “Could you paint me first?”

  Harold’s lips halted their exploration of her earlobe. “If your intention is to torture me to madness, you enchanting minx, you’ll succeed.” His laugh tickled her skin.

  Hazel tugged at his cravat. “Actually, I rather thought it would be the other way around.”

  Leaning away to better see her, dawning lit his eyes. “You’re not referring to paintbrushes and a canvas, are you?”

  She shook her head and giggled.

  With a throaty growl, he said, “Then prepare to be painted, my darling.”

  Epilogue

  October 1760

  Hazel stood in their apple orchard, arm in arm with Agnes. Together, they watched their husbands pander to the whims of their sons. Agnes’s son Forrester, now five years old, straddled his father’s shoulders while Patrick hoisted him to reach the tallest apple dangling just out of reach. Hazel’s son Walter, four going on twenty it seemed some days, ran circles around Harold, trying to scoop up the fallen apples before his father could.

  Circling another tree, picking their own fare, were Helena, Eugene, and Nana. Helena was clamoring about a cider party she wanted to host, while Nana regaled them all with a tale of when Horace had hosted a cider party—utter nonsense Eugene exclaimed, for there was not an apple orchard when his father was alive. The baron, who doted on his grandson as he had never doted on his own son, had lost a good deal of his robust girth over the years, now a quieter and more subdued man, affected in ways none of them could understand by his poor decisions, or so it seemed to Hazel.

  Harold grabbed Walter on one of the boy’s rounds and tossed him into the air. Hazel shrieked as Harold caught him, their son laughing at the fun.

  “Excuse me, Agnes, but I must see to my husband.”

  She marched over to Harold,
hands on hips. Even as she made her way to him, he lobbed Walter into the air again. She quickened her pace.

  “You put him down this instant.” She scolded Harold.

  Addressing Walter rather than her, Harold said, “Your mother is envious that I’m not tossing her into the air. Think I should?”

  Walter found that endlessly amusing.

  Hazel narrowed her eyes at her husband. “I’ll not have any of us disheveled for our guests. They’re due to arrive within the hour.”

  “And here I thought you were worried for his safety,” Harold ribbed.

  “Nonsense. I trust you. But you’ll have him sweaty before his grandpapa and uncle arrive. I want him looking his best.”

  “You don’t fool me,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “You’re hoping your brother’s paternal instinct will kick in so that he’ll be motivated to find love at last. One look at cherubic Walter and who wouldn’t want a son of his own?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Hazel’s cheeks warmed to be so transparent. “Although now that you mention it, Cuthbert does need a nudge in that direction. Do you suppose we should host that cider party while they’re visiting?”

  Harold ruffled Walter’s curls before the boy stumbled his way past fallen apples to tug Forrester into a game of chase. “If you want Cuthbert to find love, allow him to conduct his own search.”

  “We didn’t conduct our own search, yet we’re a love match.” Hazel poked his arm.

  Harold’s returning grin tied her stomach in knots. So distracted by her love’s wicked smile, she did not realize what he was about until it was too late. Before the entire family and their guests, he grabbed her waist in a firm grip and tossed her into the air, sending her screeching upwards by a few feet then rescued by his strong arms.

  He pulled her against him and, before his lips met hers, said, “Yes, we are.”

  A Note from the Author

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for purchasing and reading this book. Supporting indie writers who brave self-publishing is important and appreciated. I hope you’ll continue reading my novels, as I have many more titles to come.