The School for Heiresses

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “The retiring room, Papa,” she said, hoping madly she didn’t look as flushed as she felt.

  Her father looked at her accusingly, but led her to her seat—next to Lord Prescott, of course, who proceeded to explain his worth to her. As she tried to navigate her way through that conversation, she saw Mr. Adlaine wander in, moving like a lion, casually perusing a herd of gazelles. He made a point of walking past her table, pausing to smile wickedly at her over Mrs. Bonifield’s head as he sauntered by.

  There it was again, that feeling of fire.

  Grace did not see Mr. Adlaine after that.

  But she felt him.

  Lord God, she felt him long after the guests had left and she was in bed, felt every muscle in his shoulders, felt every inch of his lips, every sinew in his arms that had held her so securely to him.

  Four

  Mr. Barrett Adlaine could not account for what had come over him. He was not the sort of man to boldly kiss a young woman in the shadow of her father, particularly without the slightest hint of invitation. But he’d been quite unable to resist Grace Holcomb.

  Frankly, he wasn’t entirely certain why he was so taken with her. She was too pompous, really…but something had moved him. Perhaps it was her delicate feet, or the smooth skin of her leg, or the way her cheeks flushed when he teased her about marrying well.

  Or perhaps Grace Holcomb’s appeal was more simple than that. She was a very handsome woman—a pretty face, soft curves, satin skin, and shining hair—and he was a very basic man. In truth, he’d admired her since she’d come of age. As a child, he recalled that she was forever hanging from trees or throwing rocks with her brothers, but it seemed as if overnight one summer she’d changed, turning into a pretty, vibrant young woman.

  Still, he did not know how he could forget himself so completely, and he could not disagree with her assessment—his actions could very well have plunged them into scandal. Yet Barrett could not help but take issue with the ardent way she had announced his kiss so wholly insupportable.

  In spite of the fact that itwas insupportable, her remark had left him feeling perturbed these last two weeks, unable to think clearly in the course of his day. The same question kept creeping into his head, over and over: did she findhim so terribly insupportable?

  Granted, he didn’t possess a lofty title, but he was a man who had a thriving business, one that he hoped would one day rival her father’s. He was well respected around Yorkshire. His father had been well known and liked in the Cloth Halls, just as his brother was now. His connections could not be linked to thehaute ton of London—save one old friend, Lord Dewer—but in Leeds, he counted the most revered citizens among his close acquaintances.

  Frankly, Miss Holcomb could do far worse than him.

  In fact, Miss Holcomb had a glaring tendency, Barrett decided, to favor title and fortune over a man’s character. If that was what she wanted for herself, so be it, buthe could not esteem a woman who valued lineage and material wealth above natural compatibility and esteem. And the superior way she had of looking at him, as if she were the bloody queen of England, and he her lowly knave!

  It took all of a fortnight to rid himself completely of all the bothersome thoughts about Miss Holcomb—and he was not helped in his endeavor by the frequent memory of that kiss. Of her shiny hair and glimmering brown eyes, for that matter. But he did, at last, put her out of his mind.

  Until he saw her again.

  The local justice of the peace, Mr. Thomas Dumont, hosted an assembly celebrating his son’s purchase of a commission into the Royal Cavalry.

  Barrett hadn’t thought of Miss Holcomb attending, but when she appeared with her parents and two brothers, he felt his damnably traitorous heart skip a beat. She was a vision of beauty in a gold satin gown that, at least to his untrained eye, perfectly complemented her auburn hair, done up in curls and held together by a long strand of pearls. The gown showed her fine figure at its best, and on her feet, he couldn’t help notice, she wore a pair of gold satin high-heeled shoes, adorned with tiny little seed pearls. And around the smooth column of her neck, against milky white skin, a simple gold cross.

  Miss Holcomb didn’t notice him at first. As her mother and brothers conversed with Mrs. Dumont, she moved around the room on the arm of her father, greeting various persons of note. When her father paused to greet Sir Giles, she happened to turn just so and saw Barrett standing there, gripping a glass of ale so tightly that it was a wonder it didn’t shatter. She smiled—a lovely wreath of a smile, and he felt his heart take wing.

  “Miss Holcomb,” he said, bowing over the hand she held out to him.

  “Mr. Adlaine, how good to see you.”

  “Adlaine!” Mr. Holcomb boomed, turning from Sir Giles. “I am surprised to see you looking so well. I saw you up to your elbows in sheep dung earlier today!”

  Barrett swallowed uncomfortably at that image and glanced at Miss Holcomb, who was, he thought, smiling with amusement. So much for her fear of ever looking him in the eye. “An intolerable situation, sir. I removed myself as soon as I was able.”

  “It’s good you’ve come away from the mill, sir,” Mr. Holcomb said jovially. “I’ve oft remarked that you’ll work yourself into an early grave.” He took Barrett’s hand and shook it vigorously. “By Jove, if hard work was capable of giving harm, you’d be dead,” he blustered loudly. “Good to see you well, Adlaine. Come along, Gracie. There is someone I should like you to meet.”

  Grace Holcomb smiled at Barrett as her father marched her away, glancing back at him over her shoulder and giving him a tiny, helpless shrug. With that tiny shrug, all his ill feelings about her began to flit, one by one, out of his fool head.

  But Mr. Holcomb kept a tight rein on his daughter that evening—Barrett couldn’t get near her to speak to her. When supper was served, he was seated as far from her as was possible and next to Miss Ellington, whom he had long known to be a particular admirer of his. As Miss Ellington chatted about her delicate palate, which did not, apparently, digest haddock particularly well, he stole glimpses of Grace Holcomb. Lord Prescott was seated across from her; Mr. Grant, on her right, and both were quite attentive to her, and she to them.

  After supper, the women removed themselves and the men enjoyed their cigars and brandy. Then the men joined the ladies again in a salon where two card tables had been set up, one for loo, one for whist.

  “Miss Holcomb,” Barrett heard Mr. Dumont say behind him, “will you partake in cards?”

  He half-turned and looked at Grace.

  “I’ve never been very good at loo, sir,” she said. “It goes far too quickly for my tastes. But I do enjoy whist.”

  “Then we must have you play,” he said.

  “But I haven’t a partner!” she exclaimed laughingly. “And I pray you, please do not suggest my brother Freddie, for he is frightfully impatient with the game.”

  Barrett turned fully around and bowed. “If you will allow it, Miss Holcomb, I should be pleased to partner with you.”

  “Oh!” She glanced across the room at her father. “Are you quite certain, Mr. Adlaine? I should not like to force a partnership if there is someone else you might prefer.”

  “How could I possibly prefer anyone else?” he asked gallantly.

  “There you have it, Miss Holcomb. You cannot refuse a man who speaks so ardently in your favor,” Mr. Dumont said.

  “I surely cannot,” she said, and put her delicate hand on the arm Barrett offered.

  They were paired with Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree, who had been married for many years and had several children. Mr. Crabtree was a rotund man with wooly-worm eyebrows. Mrs. Crabtree was likewise rotund with curls as large as sausages bobbing about her ears. One might have hoped that their many years together had endeared them to one another, but that hardly seemed to be the case. Mr. Crabtree commended every card Grace laid, but found fault with everything his wife managed to do. Mrs. Crabtree huffed and puffed at Mr. Crabtree when she wasn’t regaling Bar
rett with her husband’s many faults.

  “Good God, Harriet!” Mr. Crabtree exclaimed after Mrs. Crabtree had misplayed a card and Grace had taken the round, “do youintend for us to lose?”

  “Will youplease stop blustering so!” Mrs. Crabtree admonished. “You are not the only one among us to have played a few hands of whist in his lifetime, Mr. Crabtree—I am quite well aware of what I am doing!”

  He rolled his eyes and looked at Grace. “Take care, child, of whom you marry, lest you be subjected to a disagreeable partner when you sit for cards.”

  “You needn’t worry about Miss Holcomb,” Barrett said. “She is destined to marry quite well.”

  Over the top of her cards, Grace gave him a withering look.

  “But ofcourse, ” Mrs. Crabtree said as she squinted at her hand. “Miss Holcomb shall marry agreat man, for her father will never consent to anything less.” She looked at Grace over the top of her cards. “You will never have cause for concern over money, my dear.”

  “I—” Grace started, but Mrs. Crabtree had not quite finished.

  “Your father is very keen to see you married well, Miss Holcomb, and if there is a man in Yorkshire who will see it through, it is Mr. George Holcomb, mark me.”

  “If the character mark of a great man is determined by the size of his fortune, than Miss Holcomb must go to London, for I do not believe agreat fortune can be found in Leeds,” Barrett said, and looked at Grace, silently challenging her to disagree.

  “No, of course not, not inLeeds, ” Mrs. Crabtree adamantly agreed. “Only Lord Prescott has the sort of fortune Mr. Holcomb envisions, I am sure.”

  “You are both far more informed of the particulars than am I,” Grace said demurely, her eyes narrowed on Barrett.

  “My wife is hardly privy to what Mr. Holcomb envisions,” Mr. Crabtree groused, and looked at Grace. “You must forgive her, Miss Holcomb. She has far too active an imagination.”

  No one spoke. They played another round, which Mr. Crabtree trumped. “And what of you, Mr. Adlaine?” he said as he swept the pile of cards into a stack. “I’ve heard quite a lot of speculation as to whenyou will marry.”

  That surprised Barrett; he’d never mentioned marriage to anyone and certainly had not thought of it until very recently—he’d been too busy building his livelihood.

  “Oh yes, all the unmarried ladies have their eye on a prize such asyou, Mr. Adlaine,” Mrs. Crabtree echoed, and glanced coyly at him.

  “Take my advice, sir, and don’t waste your youth making your fortune, for the more you make of it, the more your future wife will spend,” Mr. Crabtree said.

  “On my word, I don’t think of it,” Barrett said, and with a subtle wink for Grace he added, “After all, I am but a man from Leeds without a very great fortune at all.”

  “Oh, Mr. Adlaine, there ismuch more to recommend you!” Mrs. Crabtree said, smiling sympathetically at him.

  Grace snorted as she laid a card that trumped Mrs. Crabtree’s, then said sweetly, “A man is not defined by his fortune alone, Mr. Adlaine. His greatness also lies in his bearing and education and the good opinion of his peers.”

  Barrett hid a derisive laugh behind a cough, then lifted a dubious brow.

  Likewise, Grace lifted a brow over glittering brown eyes.

  “I will tell you a great man who has neither fortune nor peers,” Mr. Crabtree said thoughtfully. “Reverend Sloan. He has neither fortune nor peer in his part of Yorkshire, yet he is a great man.”

  “It must certainly derive from his bearing and education then,” Barrett said low.

  “Yes, well, wherever he derives it, he is not worthy ofyour consideration for matrimony, Miss Holcomb,” Mrs. Crabtree said imperiously.

  “Dear God,” Mr. Crabtree sighed wearily. “You have not only expressed Miss Holcomb’s desire to marry as if it were your own, now you have determined who she may marry!”

  “I am no stranger to the desires of a young woman, Mr. Crabtree,” Mrs. Crabtree insisted. “It has not been so very long thatI was a young and unmarried woman.”

  “It has been far longer for me,” Mr. Crabtree muttered.

  “I claim no particular desire to marry at once,” Grace protested sweetly. “I would much rather have a partner who paid close attention to the card I have played than a verygreat fortune.” She looked at Barrett pointedly. He, in turn, looked at the cards that had been played this round.

  “You have trumped my card without a care, sir.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Holcomb,” he said politely. “You played a queen of hearts. The king of hearts has not been laid in five rounds and, therefore, the odds were very good that Mr. or Mrs. Crabtree had that king. I was protecting your hand.”

  “And there you are, Mr. Adlaine, unappreciated for your ability to protect and defend a lady in every conceivable way,” Mr. Crabtree sighed as he studied his hand. “You might as well be married.”

  “Oh, Mr. Crabtree! You’ve neither defended nor protected me in twenty years!” Mrs. Crabtree snapped as she laid her card.

  Barrett looked across the table at Grace, who smiled prettily as she pulled a card from her hand and let go, so that it flitted to the table.

  “Dear Lord, Mr. Adlaine, she has invited you to trump her again,” Mr. Crabtree said, bemused.

  And as Mrs. Crabtree squinted at the cards that had been played, Grace continued to smile pertly. Barrett thought he’d never seen a more mischievous or lovelier smile and felt his heart surrender to her as he trumped her yet again.

  Mr. Crabtree was right. Perhaps it was time he married.

  Five

  Grace thought of little else but Mr. Adlaine the following week—the way he’d sat so casually across from her at the whist table, watching her. Or the way a lock of his darkly golden hair dipped over one blue eye and the way his lips curved up in the corners and ended in twin dimples with his quiet smile. Or the way he held his cards in hands that were twice as broad as hers and looked as if they could break a person in two…or caress her leg…

  The memory gave her another delightful shiver, and she privately lamented that he was merely a textile merchant, not an earl. Or a baron. Not even a baronet.

  But her greatest regret was that she would return to London soon and likely would not see Mr. Adlaine again until after she’d received a viable offer of marriage. In that, her father was quite determined, particularly after she had, in a fit of tears, refused to even entertain the notion of marrying Lord Prescott.

  Two days past, Papa had announced that he would send Grace back to London and Mrs. Wells, where she was to first call on Mrs. Harris and be “refreshed” in her training. Then, she was to take advantage of the Christmas season and, Grace presumed, what her father believed were scads of aristocratic bachelors moping about London in desperate want of a debutante’s hand.

  “I’ll not have an argument, Gracie,” Papa had said sternly when she’d weakly protested, knowing full well it would do no good. “You’ll be two and twenty in three months’ time. If we are to make a good match, we must do so before you grow too old.”

  “I hardly think two and twenty is tooold, Papa.”

  “You are to London,” he’d said firmly. “And you will listen very carefully to Mrs. Harris’s instructions and you will follow them to the letter, miss. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  “You arealways perfectly clear,” she’d said petulantly. But she was not, thankfully, completely without her powers of persuasion. Her father agreed to allow her to remain at Heslington a fortnight more, until Michaelmas, before the weather typically began to turn cold and rainy.

  Two days before she was to depart for London, Grace accepted Freddie’s invitation to have a drive about the countryside one afternoon. “The weather is fine, Gracie,” her brother had said, eager to test his new cabriolet. “We’ll not see many more days like this, I’d wager.”

  He was right—the day was unseasonably warm and gloriously sunny. They drove around the lake their father
had stocked with pike and trout, and around the newly built pavilion that would house an orchestra of twelve next summer when the Holcombs hosted a summer day of games for the local gentry on the east lawn. And when they had toured the park thoroughly behind two young and eager horses, Freddie drove to the road that went down to the River Aire, and sent the horses running.

  They would have driven all the way to the end of the road where the Holcomb pens were located, had not a flock of wayward sheep blocked the road and caused Freddie to pull up so sharply that the carriage brake locked up. “Dammit!” Freddie cursed, and jumped down to have a look. “Bloody hell, but that doesn’t look good at all,” he muttered.

  Ahead about a quarter of a mile was the Adlaine textile mill. As Freddie crawled beneath the carriage, muttering under his breath, Grace wondered if Barrett was at the mill. She imagined him in his office, working diligently over his accounts. She looked at Fred-die—or rather, Freddie’s legs—and abruptly climbed down the other side of the carriage. She squatted down, peeked beneath the carriage. “I’m going to stretch my legs a bit.”

  “Well for God’s sake, don’t wander too far. Papa will have my head if there’s even a hint of dung on your hem,” he groused as he inspected the brake.

  For a man who’d made a fortune from sheep, her father did have a rather strong aversion to them.

  Grace walked on, through sheep that scattered like a school of fish. As she neared the mill, she could see the front pens were teeming with them. It appeared that a flock had been brought in for shearing. Several men were working them, moving them through a small chute into a barn to be shorn, and out another chute into a pen where they bawled loudly for having lost their fleece.

  Grace passed through a gate into an enclosed yard at the entrance to the mill, but as she reached the office door and lifted her hand to knock, he appeared around the corner of the mill.Adlaine.