by Gloria Gay
Forced Offer
Copyright © 2001 Gloria Caballero Gay
All Rights Reserved
EBOOK ISBN: 9781609106959
PRINT ISBN: 1931391904
Published 2001
Published by Gloria Caballero Gay, 312 Dahlia Ave., Imperial Beach, CA 91932, United States of America. ©2001. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Acknowledgment: Edited by Mariana Gay Hughes
[Revised: Sept. 2007]
Manufactured in the United States of America
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Booklocker.com, Inc. 2001
Dedication
To Henry, Isabel and Robbie, and all the other Peppers
Chapter 1
"It's so dank and eerie," said Belinda, straining her eyes in the gloom of the vast wine cellar, where rows upon rows of dusty wine bottles lay in endless shelves. There was a tremor in her voice. "I wish he had not thought of this dungeon for a meeting, Mama. It seems such an unlikely place."
"It's romantic, Belinda," whispered Mrs. Presleigh, and remembering that the walls were several feet deep ceased whispering and spoke out loud. "All the ladies remarked on it when we toured it."
"Is it nearing midnight?" Belinda asked with a shudder. She wanted this incredible meeting over and done with and herself back in the warm safety of her bedroom. She had the most unnerving feeling of unreality, as though she was sleepwalking.
Mrs. Presleigh glanced at her husband's ponderous watch, which hung from a chain on her neck.
"We still have a few minutes, Belinda," she said, "I thought it best to be here with plenty of time so that you could get adjusted to the place."
"There is something so wrong with this," Belinda whispered fiercely. "Mama, why did you not allow us to consult with Papa?"
"You father was not feeling well this afternoon, dear. You would not be so insensitive as to disturb him in his rest, would you?"
"But this meeting…just the thought of it is appalling. I can't believe I am here. What if the letter was not meant for me? Lord Berrington would think me fast!"
"I will not listen to any more of this foolishness, Belinda. Think of it as an adventure. Haven't you by now seen that shyness gets you nowhere in this world? No one asks shy girls for a dance, as you well know. Listen, you must start being a little bolder…it's not the shrinking violets that grab the best parti but the bold ones like Lady Sophia and Margaret Carlson."
"Yet you have described those two before as fast chits."
"Did I? Well, I was wrong. Lady Sophia is now engaged to Sir Stanford and Margaret is in her honeymoon with Lord Checkster."
"I would not be married to Lord Checkster for the world," interposed Belinda quickly, recalling Lord Checkster's long horsy face, and obsession with horses. She shuddered to think of being shackled to such a man for the rest of her life.
"Belinda, you are in no position to be so picky," exclaimed her mother with an impatient shake of the head. "However you think Lord Checkster's looks repulse, Margaret nevertheless is set for life, and her position in society assured. We, on the other hand, must grovel for invitations."
"Your great-grandfather was an earl Belinda. Think on it. Think how our rightful place in society was taken from us by an unusual run of bad luck. Oh, we have money enough to live on, unlike the rest of our relatives, but that is not enough."
"Belinda, look at me," she said when Belinda said nothing. Mrs. Presleigh forced Belinda's face toward her.
"Who else can restore our rightful place?"
"Mama, even if Lord Berrington has written this—this letter, it does not signify as much as you seem to think, he is merely asking to see me."
Belinda blushed at her words, for they tasted strange to the tongue. Lord Berrington writing to her—the idea still seemed preposterous.
"You are an ungrateful girl—" exclaimed Mrs. Presleigh indignantly, "—to talk to your mother thus." She took out a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbing at an imaginary tear, said in a loud whisper:
"Roselle, on the other hand…" she began the mantra with which she often made Belinda feel inadequate.
"Mama—please."
"You will stop objecting to this meeting and let us get on with it then?"
"I will," said Belinda with resignation. "Midnight—an ungodly hour for this tryst," she added, looking fearfully around the vast place, their candle barely a dim glow in the deep gloom.
"I fear nothing good can come out of this. You will soon be dredging the river for me, for I cannot think how I can survive this meeting." She felt a tremor through her body.
"Come, dear, don't be so melodramatic," said Mrs. Presleigh firmly, as she took her daughter's arm.
"Let us walk over to the spot where I want you to stand, for it is nearing midnight. Do not move an inch either way," she added firmly, steering Belinda a few paces from the foot of the stairs.
"Stand a bit in the shadow but obvious enough when he descends the stairs." She adjusted the cloak on Belinda's head and pulled up the hood over her head and low over her forehead.
"Must I also wear the hood?" asked Belinda.
"Yes, dear, you must. You would not want any spiders on your head, now would you?"
"Spiders?" Belinda asked and pulled the hood even lower over her forehead without further protest.
With a satisfied smile, Mrs. Presleigh placed the candle on the heavy square table on the other side of the stairs and removed herself to her post, in the shadows behind the stair's railing.
"I hear a sound," she hissed to Belinda as with pounding hearts both ladies waited in suspense.
* * * * *
"Well, Rick, and how is it at Lennington Hall? Have I missed any fun? Is Lady Celeste among the house guests?"
"Yes, she is," said Lord Berrington, taking a sip of claret and leaning his broad shoulders back against the chair. They had been for several hours at a private room at the Black Boar, catching up on a year's worth of gossip and news. Friends since childhood, they were in perfect ease in each other's company.
"Rogue," said Lord Wilbur with a glint in his gray eyes. "I imagined you would make certain she was among the guests before you committed yourself to this party. These affairs can be infernally boring.Who else is there, by the way?"
"Sir Farley and Lady Belmont are there, and the Rochesters with their two daughters and son; Countess Radley and her daughter Margaret. Let's see—the Wellses, Christina Rodney and her brother Charles, Lord and Lady Beechwood and old Viscount Clariston. That's all, I think—oh, and the Presleighs."
"The Presleighs are always an afterthought," mused Lord Wilbur. "How they always manage to wrangle invitations everywhere is one deep puzzle."
"No puzzle," said Berrington. "Presleigh makes an art of cajoling men when they are in their cups. That overbearing wife of his probably puts him up to it."
"The daughter is not so bad. She has rare eyes," Wilbur remarked.
"The daughter?"
"Barbara, no, Belinda—I think. They're neighbors of yours—you should know."
"I don't. I don't think I've ever laid eyes on her, at least not consciously."
"Funny thing, though, you being neighbors—forever, so to speak," said Wilbur.
"Since she seems to have made an impression," laughed Berrington, "Why have you never danced with her? Or have you?"
"I almost did, once, but I was distracted from it by someone else. Are you sure you don't recall her? A coltish kind of girl with br
own hair and—"
"And rare eyes?" asked Berrington smiling. "Her eyes cannot be that fine, if I can't recall them. Anyhow, how did we get into this tedious discussion of that obnoxious family?"
"Perhaps my mind was wandering along the petticoat line, thinking that it's time you turned your thoughts to matrimony, old chum," answered Wilbur.
"Matrimony!" The earl shot a startled look at his friend, and with a laugh, exclaimed, "If we are going to get someone leg-shackled, why not you?"
"Ah, but I'm only a lowly baron, with three sturdy brothers to succeed me should I come to an untimely death. You, on the other hand, are an only son, and an earl, to boot. It is your solemn duty to think along those lines. How old are you?"
"You must know that perfectly, since we are of the exact age," countered the earl.
"Is it to be Lady Celeste, then?"
"No…I…why on earth should you think so?"
"The answer is no?"
"I didn't say that—"
"Then it's yes?"
"The devil a bit! Will you stop hounding me? What's come over you, anyhow?"
"I was just wondering," said Lord Wilbur thoughtfully. "I have been getting report after report of you being in the fair Celeste's pocket—"
"The reports are not accurate; I would not—"
"Think of marrying her? I could not agree with you more. I don't think the lady is aware of propriety."
"Take care, Willie. Friend or not I may just plant a facer on you."
The conversation had brought to Berrington's mind his assignation with the very same Lady Celeste in the wine cellar they had visited a few days before in a tour given by their hosts, and as the clock struck the half hour, he got up.
"Come on, Willie. I've had it for tonight. Leave some room in that blasted head of yours for Lennington's liquor."
"I'm afraid I won't be able to attend this house party, old pal," said Lord Wilbur with a frown, "Steven has begged me to lend moral support to Cathy on the impending birth. The child is due in these days. I only postponed my journey a few hours to be with you. But as soon as the babe and Cathy are out of danger and I have written to Steven, I shall join you in London."
* * * * *
With a roar like a waterfall in her ears, Belinda froze in her spot as she glanced up and saw the long shadow of a man as he descended the stairs.
At the foot of the stairs he glanced around and catching sight of her, approached at a leisurely pace and exclaimed:
"Celeste…my dear!"
Belinda's head felt as if it was spinning and her heart felt as if it would explode in her chest. She wondered if she was going to faint in the exact moment when she actually did, slipping to the stone floor without a sound.
Lord Berrington rushed over to her.
Unconscious, Belinda did not hear the heavy door slamming shut.
But Lord Berrington certainly did.
He removed the hood over Belinda's head, and in the dim light of the single candle, saw dark hair where blond should have been.
He cursed under his breath and taking off his coat he folded it and placed it under her head. Then he ran up the stairs, and realized that the door was locked tight. With a loud curse he threw his weight against it but to no avail. It was stone tight.
He yelled out several times, as loud as he could, but only the echo of his own voice answered back.
He knew very well that the door was at the end of a long hall seldom traversed in the day, much less at night. Not even the loudest yelling would be heard by anyone. Then he directed his steps once more to the still form on the stone floor.
He brought the candle over to where Belinda lay and examined her face. But though she seemed faintly familiar he couldn't match her features to anyone known to him. Could this girl be a servant?
He carefully pulled the cape a little away from the still form and examined the gown she wore. No, the clothes could belong to none other than a lady. He glanced briefly at the pink muslin dress, at the expensive embroidered slippers that were peeping at the hem of her dress, and at the cloak of heavy dark broadcloth, which was just as expensive as the rest of the clothes.
A few minutes went by as Lord Berrington pondered the situation. It was obvious that he was a victim of a carefully laid hoax. Could Lady Celeste be at the bottom of it? Had she sent this girl in her place instead?
And who was this girl?
He ran over the guests in his mind, taking note of only the ladies present at the house party. Then it hit him. The Presleighs! This girl must be that chit who was his neighbor, and whose features he couldn't remember to save his life.
At this moment Belinda opened her eyes. And as Lord Berrington's face was right before her, his eyes probing her features with cold composure, she let out a startled cry.
"Who are you?" asked Lord Berrington, although he had already guessed who she was, "and what are you doing here?"
"I…you…" Belinda tried to stand up, and he hurried to assist her. He then placed the candle back on the table.
With the table between them, he asked again, "Well?"
"I'm...Bel—Belinda Presleigh."
"And?"
"I think I should go now—" Belinda said, but Lord Berrington grasped her arm so that she cried out in alarm.
"By all means, let me assist you, Miss Presleigh," he said as he pulled her up the stairs with him.
When they reached the door, he said sarcastically, "As I have not been able to open it, perhaps you might."
"What do you m—m—mean?" asked Belinda, reaching for the handle of the door, the blood in her veins freezing at the look in his eyes.
"It—it's locked!"
"Just so, and from the outside," answered Berrington.
"Mama!" Belinda still thought her mother was hiding behind the staircase, for she was still dazed. It had not yet occurred to her that it was her mother who had locked them in the cellar.
"'Mama,'" said Lord Berrington slowly. "It's beginning to dawn on me that 'Mama' has something to do with this business—am I correct?"
Without answering him, Belinda walked over to the table where the candle sputtered and sat heavily on one of the chairs.
Lord Berrington came over and standing before her slammed his fist on the table so hard that the candle jumped and almost toppled. Belinda started and looked at him in alarm.
"I want some answers to my questions, Miss Presleigh, and I want them now!"
"I—I know nothing. I only came in answer to your letter…"
"My letter?" he asked, his brown eyes wide with amazement, "What letter?" A part of Belinda’s mind noted that those were the eyes she had lain awake so many nights thinking of.
"The…the…letter you wrote me—"
"I wrote you a letter? Where is this letter? Did you bring it with you?"
"No…I…I…left…it…in my bedroom—"
"Conveniently so, I should say," muttered the earl. And when she said nothing, but stared at the candle like one hypnotized he went on,
"You called out to your mother. Was it she who arranged for you to be at this meeting?"
Belinda pressed her lips tight and said nothing. Fierce family pride now invaded her and made a shield against the onslaught of angry words. She would not expose her mother to his ruthless accusations, no matter how much her mother may be at fault. And Belinda's mind was now rushing inexorably to her mother's obvious guilt.
Berrington may find out everything her mother had done, which Belinda now suspected was a lot, but she would not help him with it.
"Are you going to sit there like a statue or are you going to answer my questions?" Berrington now asked.
Belinda still said nothing as she stared at the long flickering flame like the moth that she was, for hadn't he been the proverbial flame and she the sorry moth? Her mother would never have been successful in this plot had she not been a willing participator.
She would not sit here and accuse her mother when she now felt as guilty as she now knew
her mother was.
Lord Berrington had asked her who she was. A fine blow to her pride, if there was a shred of it left, she thought, for at the very least she had thought that Lord Berrington knew her. But apparently, the many times they had been at the same balls were as nothing to him.
And not even her introduction to him, forced on him by her mother, had made the slightest impression on him.
"This letter," said the earl again. "What did it say?"
"You—you should know, since you wrote it," Belinda said in a dull voice, feeling the sting of tears and willing herself not to cry.
"I wrote a letter, but it wasn't to you I wrote it," he said in a loud, angry voice. "Why should I write a letter to you, miss, when I didn't even know who you were?"
Go on, thought Belinda, turn the knife over, it still has not lodged in my heart, it needs an inch or so more…
Berrington now recalled how the obnoxious Mrs. Presleigh had tried to corner him a few times into dancing with her daughter—this girl who now turned away from him fearfully, her face ashen. Not once had he bothered to look at her before.
He did recall her sister Roselle, a beautiful blue-eyed confection of a girl who had died years before—of pneumonia or something. This girl was nothing like her sister—the exact opposite, in fact.
Berrington slid ruthless eyes over Belinda now, as eyes downcast, she suffered his examination in the silence that followed.
She was tall and very thin, he recalled, for she had reached above his shoulder as he had almost dragged her up the stairs. Most of the women Berrington had been attracted to were small and with the plumpness that was so much in fashion.
He saw that she had her hair tied back into a dull-looking thick braid and that nothing in her face was likely to attract a glance from anyone.
"It was your mother who slammed the door and locked us in here, wasn't it?"
Still Belinda said nothing. She realized nothing she said would change his opinion of her, so she might as well save her breath. In fact, the few words she had uttered had incensed him.
Once she looked up, for his eyes seemed to pull her, then she quickly looked down again. She heard his angry voice again, like the pounding of a hammer.