by Lisa Campell
“If we split up, half of the tenants will not know it was the Marquess of Dunberry who delivered their gifts, it will not do for a Lady not of Dunberry to be giving out such gifts,” he said. “It makes no sense.”
“Henry, the tenants have seen me with your family since I was a toddling babe. They know who you are, and they know who I am. It is cold,” she said. “There is no reason for us to tarry.”
“I suppose if it was known that we were to be married one day that would be true, Lady Emma—”
“How could you even think that Henry Blackmoor?” Emma looked at him aghast.
“What?” he asked feigning innocence. “You know that it is what our fathers wish. With all your incessant planning, I would have thought that you’d want to be a Duchess?!”
Emma could think of a million other things she wanted to be rather than the Duchess of Drysdale. Surely there were other titled men in the world that were a better choice for her, gentlemen who weren’t arrogant, angry, entitled brats like Henry Blackmoor.
“My plans are none of your concern,” she said, turning away from him, rubbing her hands rapidly in her fur lined muff, doing anything she could to keep them warm. “Just because our fathers are friends does not mean we will wed. If you were the last titled gentleman in all of England, I would not marry you.”
“And what, pray tell, would be so horrid about marrying me?” Henry looked at her as if she were an apparition. She almost giggled at his shock. He simply could not fathom that a girl would not dream of marrying him.
“Well, for one, I would wish for a husband that would be a partner, and not order me around like the lord of the manor. Secondly, you are arrogant. You think you know everything.”
“That is simply ridiculous,” he said. “No person can possibly know everything. I simply know more than you. But don’t fret, as my wife you would be one of the most influential women in all of England. That is something you have always wanted, is it not? Besides,” Henry continued, “a woman’s place is to support her husband, not to be his partner. I would be the lord of the manor, there is no other way for me to be.”
Emma uttered a word under her breath that she had only heard used by the stable hands, but that she felt adequately represented her feelings at learning Henry knew even that much about her private thoughts.
“You simply don’t know what you are talking about, Henry,” she said. “I no longer care how we deliver these baskets. Can we just get on with it?”
She let out a ragged breath. There was no point to allowing the conversation to continue. She was getting chilled and they hadn’t even delivered one basket. At the rate they were going, it would be the new year before they got back to the estate. Her stomach growled loudly, and Henry let out a laugh at her expense.
“I suppose we can, if you are willing to admit that I am right, and you are wrong.”
“I will admit no such thing!”
“When you are older, Emma, you will think differently. We will one day make an excellent match,” he said. The familiarity of which he used her name without the honorific and the finality of his statement made her skin crawl.
I despise him, she thought. Mother and Father would never allow their friend the Duke to dictate a match between us, if I did not want it. At least of that I am sure.
Chapter One
Elesmere Estate, England, 1813
“What do you mean it’s all gone, Father?”
“I mean, my dear, all of the money, the un-entailed lands, the horses, the carriage, the servants, it is all gone.” Emma watched in horror as her father, the Earl of Elesmere, a man she had always revered as a giant among men, hung his head in shame.
She looked around his study where they now sat, a room that as a child she had always felt was magical. She had spent hours contemplating if the fox escaped the hunters in the painting of the English countryside that hung on the wall behind her father’s desk, and how the fire always seemed to be stoked in the hearth when she had never seen a servant in the room.
She had sat under his large mahogany desk and listened as he conducted business with his man of affairs, or tenants on their land. When they left, she would pop out and ask her father what it meant that the wheat crop was weak one year. Or how many bales of hay were needed to keep the horses in the stables fed. The Earl would smile and answer each of her questions no matter how complicated, or how busy he was. Yet, that was a long time ago, Emma thought. That was before mother…
“How could it all be gone, Father? What happened?” She sank into the oversized leather chair that sat opposite the hearth and faced her father at his desk. Papers that were usually piled high waiting for her father’s review or signature, were scattered along the top, some dropping carelessly to the floor.
“Oh, Emma, my sweet girl. I have been so reckless,” he said still unable to look her in the eye. “I’ve made a horrible mess of things, and I’m afraid you will be made to suffer for my mistakes.”
“What do you mean, Father?” She asked. “How will I be made to suffer? You are speaking in riddles.”
“I fell into a deep despair, when your mother died,” he said.
“I know, Father,” Emma replied with condolence.
“I made foolish decisions, gave up so much. I gambled with our funds, not for any true love of sport, but rather thinking I would make our little corner of England so grand. I would make your mother proud.”
“But Father, everything in our little corner of England is fine just the way it is.”
“Yes, it was indeed,” he said, rising and walking over to Emma, taking her hands in his own. He looked at her as if she were a ghost, and not the flesh and blood daughter that sat right before him. “And it will be again soon,” he said. “Were your mother alive, she would have not allowed me to do what I have done. I know, however, that she would be pleased with how I have been able to fix it. You too should be very pleased. Knowing you as I do, however, it will take you some time to see how good this is for you, as well as for our family.”
“Father, please tell me what is going on,” she replied. It was unlike him to be so affectionate with her. It was far more common for her father to treat her with a cool air of aloofness. Emma thought hard for the last time her father had comforted her. It was certainly not often in the five years since her mother’s death.
“It would have been so much worse were I forced into a debtor’s prison. Our name and status lost with no one to care for you. But I have fixed it. I hope you will see it was my only option.” He was speaking rapidly, repeating himself over and over with no true explanation. If Emma did not know it was her father in front of her, she would have thought she was speaking to a crazed man, daft, and perhaps under the influence of some unknown substance.
“Now you truly are terrifying me.” Emma searched her father’s face for some clue as to what he was talking about. It was hard enough to accept that he had gambled away the family money and properties. Although Emma was sure there was a bad investment or two in his ledger as well. Since losing her mother she knew her father’s despair had been great, and Emma had long feared that he kept company with an unsavory gentleman or two from time to time. Yet, until this moment she never thought her father foolish enough to squander their living.
Even though her father was an Earl, they did not have much in way of funds that were not entailed as part of the Earldom. Emma did not know the exact amount. As a lady it never occurred to her to ask. They lived comfortably enough, if simply.
Of course, Emma had new gowns from time to time, in order to stay fashionable, but only for their country entertaining. Since she rarely went to town, and never had a Season, clothing wasn’t her highest priority. She had even forgone spending her pin money on ribbons and other adornments, opting instead to use her time and resources to help those in need in the neighboring farms and villages.
They had lands to keep up and a few tenants, but nothing as grand as her father’s closest friend, the Duke of Drysdale who
had more land, tenants, and investment than Emma thought decent for one family.
“Emma, darling, there is no need to be terrified,” he said. “All will be well. We will have the funds we need to keep the creditors at bay, and you will be positioned to be one of the most influential women in all of England. Wasn’t that always your dream, Emma, to enrapture the ton with your charms, marry well, and be a woman of means and substance?”
“Father, I was a child. Certainly, you don’t think I still crave those childish dreams.” Emma knew where the conversation was headed, and dread filled her, realizing her father had done the unthinkable.
“Those dreams are not childish at all. It’s what all women should want for themselves, what all fathers want for their daughters, and the match I have made for you will be the success to rival all other successes.”
“The match?”
“The Duke of Drysdale and I have spoken in great length about the matter. His son is in need of a wife. A wife who is accomplished and able to move in the right political circles.”
No, he could not possibly mean…
“Father, you wouldn’t—”
“Darling, you and Blackmoor were friends in childhood, there is a reasonable expectation that you will make a superb match. The Duke is prepared to payoff all of the debt. Of course, some of the property will not be able to be reclaimed, but the estate can go on. It really is what is best for everyone involved.”
Emma’s head began to spin. She got up and moved to the sideboard where she knew her father kept the good French brandy. She needed some kind of fortification.
She then recalled the last time she had seen him, Henry Blackmoor. So long ago now, and then she remembered that he had annoyed her.
She shuddered as the memory came rushing back to her. No. Not him.
“I won’t do it,” she said pouring herself what she thought might be just enough brandy to make their conversation more palatable. “You can’t mean to sell me off to the highest bidder as if I were chattel. And to Lord Henry Blackmoor of all people. I refuse.”
“I’m afraid you cannot refuse my dear. The paperwork is signed, and the money has changed hands. As we speak the Duke is in London to secure a special license.”
“A special license? Why must this rush if it has to happen at all?”
“The Duke is eager to see his only son secured and married—"
“And you needed the funds,” she finished. Her father moved toward her and took the brandy from her hand finishing the drink in one swallow.
Emma opened her mouth, willing an argument that would sway her father to come out, but there was nothing. He was in dire straits and she was the solution. She would have to marry the one man in England she swore she would never. If she were not so upset, she was sure she would find a divine humor in their situation.
“So that’s it then,” she said. “It has been decided and I have no say?”
“You and Dunberry will be married at the end of the week. It is your duty, daughter, and I’m sure you will make the best of it.”
Chapter Two
Blackmoor Townhouse, Mayfair, 1813
If there was anything that Lord Henry Blackmoor, the Marquess of Dunberry, despised above all else, it was a lack of discipline and order. He kept his life and his home in town in perfect functioning order, with his servants chosen specifically based on their reputation and ability to keep his home in the exact state he preferred. His valet, Cecil, while a little more outspoken and jolly than Henry would like, understood that Henry wanted his dress to be impeccable, and for him to execute his position flawlessly. Henry often thought that Cecil Agar may be the single best valet in all of England.
His cook, Mrs. Treacher, understood dinner was always to be served precisely at eight, it was to be five courses, and pudding was only for holiday occasions. His butler, Charleston, understood that guests were only to be admitted during fashionable hours, with the proper card and announcement. Everything in his life was planned, ordered, and that was exactly how he liked it.
Shaking off the rain as he came in from a meeting with his solicitor to go over an investment that his good friend Westfield recommended, Henry pulled off his Beaver hat and his long blue great coat.
“Charleston, how goes the afternoon?” He looked at his watch, as Charleston took the offered items. Three p.m., exactly one hour until tea. Henry was peckish, but not so much that he could not wait until the proper tea time.
“Very good, sir,” Charleston replied. “Except your father is here, My Lord, waiting for you in the study.”
He gave his butler a quizzical look.
In the study? Charleston knew that Henry always received guests in the main parlor.
“Yes, sir, I tried to move him into the parlor, but His Grace insisted he would be more comfortable in your study.”
Henry nodded, as much as it perturbed him, he understood there was no way the butler could argue with the Duke. He made his way toward the study, wondering what in the world could draw his father away from his country estate to Mayfair. Surely, he was not on his way to London already. Parliament was not scheduled to begin for another two weeks, therefore the Season was not yet in full swing. Knowing his father’s desire to see and be seen, he would have expected him at the beginning of April - and not a moment earlier.
“And to what, pray tell, do I owe this honor, Father?” Seeing his father sitting at his desk, going through his ledgers, without any notice of him, was unsettling to say the least.
“Ahh, Henry, I thought you would be back just before tea. Shall we have that man of yours bring us refreshments?” His father made no move to stand, and Henry knew he would be sitting in one of the fine leather chairs that faced his desk rather than behind the mahogany himself. He ran a hand through his jet-black hair in frustration.
“Tea is served at four, Father. Charleston will bring it then and not a moment earlier.”
“Always so punctual,” his father replied, shaking his head.
Henry had to bite his tongue to hold back sharp words for the man. Instead he simply nodded. There was no room for spontaneity in his life, and that was how he preferred it.
His parents were the exact opposite. Growing up at the country manse was a nightmare of never-ending excess for Henry. There were hunting parties, soirees, country balls, with endless guests and talks over drinks. His mother loved sherry, claret and brandy and was never one to stop at overindulgence. His father enjoyed his port, cigars, and political maneuvering with other peers of the realm. There was never a quiet space or moment for Henry to pursue his own interests or passions. He was frequently paraded out on display, as the heir to the Dukedom.
He had had enough of that life as a child. Now, at nearly thirty, he was in charge of how he lived his life and there was no way he would allow chaos to rule. Except as the heir, and without a legitimate younger brother to act as the spare, his father was still very much in control of Henry. He was able to forget most of time as he stayed in town. But, seeing his father sitting at his desk, confident in his own authority, served as a sobering reminder.
“Why are you here, Father? Parliament does not sit for another two weeks. Surely you don’t have business in town before Season. Most of the ton is still quite ensconced in the country.”
“Actually, I’m not here for Parliament,” Drysdale replied. “I am here for you.” His father smiled in a way that made Henry scowl.
“For me? Whatever for?” There was something in his father’s eyes, an emotion Henry could not name, and he did not trust it, not one bit.
“My boy, it’s high time you married—” He held up a hand to stop Henry before he had an opportunity to object. “Before you say a single word, you need to understand we are in a politically precarious position. Loringham is in position to oppose every bill I put before the House of Lords this session, and with that fresh new young wife of his, he is sure to be the most sought after invitation of Season. And, with your mother gone, God rest her soul, a
nd no one to host, you have a duty to secure a match not only for the success of our family line, but for the success of your future position as the Duke of Drysdale."
“So, what is it you propose, Your Grace? That I spend the Season sorting through the new, young debutantes to select a proper bride?” Henry let out a long breath. He hated when his father spoke of honor and duty.
“No, no, no, my boy,” his father laughed. “We don’t have time for you to make the rounds among the young beauties and wallflowers. You need to be wed before the Season begins.”
Before the Season? That was less than two weeks. What on earth was his father thinking? He knew he would have to marry eventually. Still he was shocked by the urgency of his father’s pronouncement.