At the time, he’d laughed at her, and then his father had died. “Wexford is willing to sell him carriage horses, which is all your uncle really wants. I take it the marquess is not normally a racing man.”
“Heavens forbid,” she said fervently. “Belden is a cautious investor. He’s only here to look for carriage horses and because he is discussing an investment with some associates who insisted he come look at whatever it is they want him to participate in. I cannot convince him he should invest equally in people.”
“Only soft-hearted females think like that,” he said with a laugh. “There has to be something in it for him. If the marquess doesn’t race and doesn’t need thoroughbreds, then Wexford has only one bargaining chip left on the table.”
She sipped her tea and nibbled her sandwich. Evan remembered her as a quiet young woman, barely out of the schoolroom, who had strong opinions once he pried them out of her. At the time, he’d been a fledgling and delighted with himself for persuading a lovely lady to look at him with approval. They both had a little more experience of the world these days, it seemed.
Seemingly dismissing his comment, Miss Hoyt listened to the rambling discussion at the other table, interceding to mention a few of Belden’s friends who might be interested in purchasing a racing stable. That drove the other conversation down a more enthusiastic path.
At which point, she turned back to Evan. “What bargaining chip?” she demanded, proving she hadn’t dismissed him at all.
“Bell,” he answered bluntly. “Belden needs an heir. He can support her and her sisters.”
Her big brown eyes got bigger. “Belden? Marry? That can’t happen.”
She almost seemed to be in a panic. Evan had no desire to alarm her, but this was obviously the best solution if Wexford was about to be flung into debtor’s prison. The girls needed protection, and Evan wasn’t suitable. They needed to be taken out of this environment or their drunken uncle would continue dragging them down the earl’s path.
“Later,” he murmured, offering her a tea cake while returning to listen to the horse discussion.
“Never,” she said in the same low tone, taking the cake and ripping into it as if it had caused offense.
* * *
“I must go home,” Lady Isabell insisted again as Honora led her back to the bedchamber where Sally waited to help her prepare for bed. “My sisters need me, and Little Dream will fret.”
“I dislike being the one to explain this, my lady,” Honora said, clenching her fingers in her skirt, still appalled at Meath’s alarming suggestion to marry this young thing to her uncle. “But the men most certainly won’t give you honesty. As I understand it, the debt collectors are on your father’s doorstep. With a word from a judge, they can have him thrown in prison until he finds the funds to pay them. You need to start looking to your future.”
“Funds won’t happen,” Lady Isabell said unhappily, slumping to the bed, unsurprised. “I know that. It’s the only reason I took the risk of racing today. I’m not a complete fool.”
“So you know he has run out of options. If he sells his stable, I take it there will be nothing else to put bread on the table?”
The girl hugged her bandaged wrist against her chest. “Horses are all da knows. He might afford a few sheep after paying his debts with the proceeds of the sale, but wool prices won’t pay the cost of food and coal for that great hulking manor we live in, much less pay for a sheepherder. And he’d forget the sheep and find someone with a grand horse at a grand price and we’d be right back where we are now. If I had won the prize today, we could have paid his debts. Then we could have lived well off the breeding fees, race winnings, and selling off the stock a little at a time, as we used to do, before my stepmother died. He’s not been the same since then.”
“Yes, it’s difficult,” Honora said with a sigh, settling in a wing chair. “My father wasted his fortune investing in unsuccessful ventures, always thinking he’d live long enough to see one come to fruition. It’s a different form of gambling. Men think they’ll live forever. Unfortunately, they don’t, and they leave their women helpless.”
Apparently more willing to listen to someone else’s story than consider her own, Lady Isabell studied her with interest. “But you’re Lord Belden’s niece, are you not? Surely he would take care of his own family.”
Honora smiled tightly. “His family is enormous, and they’re all poor. He wasn’t born rich. He had his estate, of course, and his title, neither of which paid the bills. He married a wealthy woman, invested her dowry wisely, and inherited her entire estate after she died. He uses his position in the Lords to improve his investments and to establish connections to others with wealth. He thinks we should all do the same.”
“That is silly,” Lady Isabell said in surprise. “We don’t all have titles or estates and can’t marry well!”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” Honora said with a wry grimace. “I’m sure he helped my mother when she chose my father, but once she was married, he felt he had no more responsibility for her. After my father died, Belden helped me have a season in London, so I could marry. Then my husband could take care of my mother. But when I had no offers at all, it was obvious that I’d never marry well. He declared it throwing good money after bad, and I had to agree. So I offered to act as his hostess if he would give my mother and my father’s sisters an allowance. He understands receiving a return for his money. I made the best of a bad situation. And that is what you need to do now.”
Lady Isabell looked shocked and thoughtful, which proved she had a head on her shoulders. “And how do your mother and aunts fare now?”
Honora grinned. “They plagued him the first year we all lived in his London townhouse. These days, he’s paying to keep them more comfortably in my father’s home. I have apparently earned his appreciation, or being rid of them was worth it.”
And that would all be lost should Belden marry. His wife would then be hostess, she would demand costly fashions, and Belden would start counting coins. Eventually, Honora would be retired to the farm with her mother and aunts, without funds and bereft of the society she enjoyed so well. Honora saw no reason to burden the girl with her own fears.
Bell laughed, but it didn’t reach her weary eyes. “Little Dream can win a great deal,” she insisted, letting Sally help her undress. “Even more if we wager on her.”
“Until she breaks her leg,” Honora reminded her. “Or the odds go down because everyone knows she will win. You are gambling with your sisters’ futures, just as your father did with yours. I’ll leave you to think on it. You are smart and beautiful. I think you’ll see that marrying well is your best choice.”
But not to Belden, she added to herself. Viscount Meath would take care of her, and it would be good for him to learn responsibility. As much as she admired Meath’s devil-may-care attitude, he had an obligation to his title and tenants to marry and produce heirs.
She let herself into the hall instead of the parlor where the men still drank and talked. She was weary to the bone. . . and frightened. She should have spent more time considering her own future. She had not thought Belden would ever remarry. He had no need of a wealthy wife any longer and seemed content with amassing his fortune. He was healthy and likely to live until she reached her dotage.
But he hated his heir. Why had she never considered that? Probably because his heir lived in Scotland and never came to town, so they seldom discussed him.
But for Belden—a man as old her father—to consider marrying a child like Lady Isabell? No, that just wasn’t right. A high-strung young woman like that needed a lively, interesting young man like Lord Meath who could keep up with her.
She stood in the hall, debating joining Belden’s guests below or simply retiring to her own chamber with her ugly thoughts.
A figured limped out of the shadows. “I was waiting for you, forgive me.”
“Forgive you for waiting for me?” Meath’s humble phrasing shook her out of
her megrims. “I was about to say good-night to the company.” Lifting her skirt, she started toward the stairs, but he caught her elbow.
“Walk with me. After seeing each other almost daily for six months, we haven’t spoken in over a decade. I rather miss our arguments.”
The warmth in his voice soothed some of her torment, until she remembered he was currently her enemy. “We have opposing views on many subjects, my lord.”
He laughed. “It was refreshing to hear a young miss who did not simper and agree with everything I said.”
If she had been less blunt. . . But no, she could never simper. “I was sorry to hear of your father’s death. How have you been faring?” She continued walking, forcing him to limp along beside her.
“My father and I rarely spoke when he was alive, but I do miss having someone making all the decisions. Really, does it matter if we have roast pigeon or roast duck for supper? And how many sheep per pasture is a particularly perplexing problem, if I’m to trust the judgement of my steward and tenants. It was far easier in the days of sloth when I need only argue with lovely ladies.”
She couldn’t help smiling at his grievance. Now she remembered why she’d enjoyed talking with him all those years ago. His complaints had been legitimate, given he’d just lost his ability to ride and enjoy the usual pursuits of young gentlemen fresh on the town. But he’d always found a way to make her laugh when he ridiculed his woes and the awkward situations he stumbled into.
“I know your sort,” she said, repressing her smile and accepting his guidance toward the duke’s gallery of ancestral paintings. “You are and ever will be a risk taker.” As she was not and had never been. “I cannot imagine how you have fared these last years among the sheep.”
He shrugged and stopped to admire a particularly imposing framed gentleman in a ruff. “Farming is always a risk. But I have learned caution in my old age. I now spread my risk among several ventures to keep me entertained. Do you enjoy acting as Belden’s hostess? Do you not wish for livelier company?”
“As you may have noticed,” she said primly, “I am not a lively sort. I hold small gatherings of similarly-minded ladies who do good works. I attend book discussions and musicales. I am far more independent than I ever would be as a wife, and I enjoy my freedom.”
“Willful, are we?” he said in amusement. “No longing for children or a home of your own?”
For years. . . But she’d learned to accept that her caution would not let her take chances with unreliable males. “Since neither are likely, I do not waste time and effort on dreaming of what I cannot have. I find it far more productive and pleasurable to seek what can be accomplished. How about you, my lord? Surely you’ve considered the need for an heir?” She steered the topic to one of more importance.
“I would have to take myself to a city with a large population of sensible women,” he said with a hint of unusual cynicism in his voice. “Or perhaps I have that wrong. Perhaps I should find a large population of foolish women who think a title is all they need in life.”
“Lady Isabell appears to be most sensible to me, sir,” she said with a shade of disdain. “She is also beautiful and wouldn’t require uprooting from her native soil. Perhaps you do not understand how much women prefer their families and the familiar around them.”
“Actually, I hadn’t give it a second’s thought until now,” he said with what sounded like actual seriousness for a change. “But I suspect females come in all sorts, just as men do. Some uproot more easily than others.”
Before she had time to consider the notion, he captured the hand she held on his arm, leaned over, and kissed her. Startled, Honora did not step away as swiftly as she should have. The viscount’s lips were gentle against hers, tasting slightly of the whiskey he’d consumed, plying her with a hungry question her lonely soul almost responded to.
She was actually kissing him back! And enjoying it—enjoying it so much that she terrified herself.
Shocked, heart beating too quickly, she recovered enough sense to push against his chest and step away. She knew better than to walk empty galleries with a gentleman! She had simply thought herself too far on the shelf for anyone to take advantage.
“That was unkind of you,” she murmured before fleeing.
Chapter 3
“You do not give up easily, Meath,” the marquess of Belden grumbled the next morning when Evan showed up at the manor’s enormous breakfast table.
“I gave up gambling,” Evan said cheerfully, scanning the guests but not finding Miss Hoyt or Bell.
Last night’s kiss had exploded all the gray matter in his head and turned his skull upside-down. He liked kissing and had kissed countless ladies over the years. None had ever made his breath catch in his lungs and his knees melt.
Why had he never kissed the enchanting Miss Hoyt before? He’d always thought of her laughter with fondness, but. . . he’d spent a restless night dreaming of rounded curves and heated kisses. He could barely focus on his purpose this morning. He needed to find Miss Hoyt and try kissing her some more. Her tart tongue had either been wonderfully sweet, or rural isolation had rotted his brain.
“Giving up bad habits is a sign of good sense, my lord,” one of the ladies at the table said, patting the chair beside her. “Have a seat, sir, and let us discuss bad habits.”
Ah, he remembered the lady from the old days. Evan cynically sought her husband, but as usual, that gentleman wasn’t about. He bowed but remained standing. If all he wanted was release, he could have that anywhere. What he wanted. . . was probably beyond his limited reach.
“I thank you for the offer, my lady, but I have merely come to inquire into the well-being of my injured neighbor. I have word of how her horse fares.” He watched the marquess and waited expectantly.
Wiping his mouth, Belden shoved back from the table. If Evan did not mistake, the marquess did so with unusual eagerness. He had also taken extra care with his appearance. His silvered-brown hair had been trimmed and pomaded, his whiskers shaved close, and he wore a rather dashing waistcoat of silver and gold beneath his tailored bottle-green coat. Belden looked every inch the distinguished statesman that he was—instead of the irritable grump he’d displayed yesterday. Evan kept his triumph to himself.
Miss Hoyt would likely slap him into tomorrow for what Evan had planned, but as the perceptive marquess had surmised, Evan did not give up—not on his plan nor on his intent to kiss Miss Hoyt again. The lady had enjoyed his kiss, until her formidable intellect and stubborn nature intruded.
He simply needed to comprehend why she thought his kiss unkind.
He followed Belden into the hall where they met Harrow just coming down. The fat tosspot looked even more dissipated than he had the day before, but he still recognized Evan.
“You!” Harrow shouted. “How dare you set foot in my presence? Belden, that man is a thief and worse. Call the magistrate! I’ll have him up on charges.”
The marquess raised a bored eyebrow. “You accuse Viscount Meath, Harrow? Of what, winning a wager?”
Obviously, Belden was no fool and grasped the nature of his guest after yesterday’s disastrous incident. Evan stepped to one side so the older man did not shield him and raised his cudgel in wry salute. “Ah, the stone-wielding abuser of horses and young ladies. I had thought you would have fled with your tail between your legs by now.”
“You would not dare to say that without a weapon in your hand,” Harrow declared, advancing with fists raised.
“Of course not,” Evan agreed honestly. “Even Lady Isabell could knock me over without my stick. You do realize it was an earl’s daughter who nearly broke her neck because of you?”
Harrow’s ruddy face flushed deeper. “No lady rides astride in breeches. Such behavior defies nature. The Irish are savages who need to be whipped into place.”
Belden emitted a sigh of impatience. Before he could speak, however, Miss Hoyt made her presence known. Apparently listening from the landing, she started down
the stairs.
“Don’t concern yourself, my lord. I’ve set Harrow’s man to packing, and they’ll be on their way after Mr. Harrow has broken his fast. I believe he means to rusticate in the country a few months, don’t you, sir? It really wouldn’t do at all if word of your debts spread to your creditors in town. My maid is a terrible gossip, and I greatly fear if I let a few words slip, word will be all over in a trice.”
Evan’s grin spread across his face as he admired the subtle blackmail of the termagant sweeping past the frozen gentleman. Really, women didn’t fight fair at all. “Good morning, glorious one,” he said, bowing before her.
“Excellent tailor, my lord,” she said haughtily, tapping the arm of the new blue frock coat he’d worn just for her. “Lady Isabell is waiting for you.”
To hell with Bell. Evan wanted to follow Miss Hoyt, but duty first. He blocked Harrow from harassing Miss Hoyt, then waited to see if the sot was coward enough to throw punches at a cripple.
Belden didn’t bother waiting. He brushed impatiently past his humiliated guest and up the stairs, a very focused man—or attentive suitor. Evan kept his grin to himself.
Scowling, Harrow stomped past Evan as if he didn’t exist. If the lout had any clout at all, he’d blackball Evan from every club in England. Unconcerned, Evan whistled as he trailed in the wake of the marquess.
“It really does behoove me to make reparations for the company I keep, does it not?” Belden asked as Evan limped up.
“Miss Hoyt believes so, and I take her judgment for gospel,” Evan agreed with a straight face. Had Belden not been interested in Bell, the marquess would have dismissed the entire incident. He was simply looking for an excuse for what he wanted to do anyway—now that he’d been made to see the opportunity.
“Honora has a sound head on her shoulders. She would make some fortunate man a good wife.” Without even turning to look at Evan, Belden continued on his own path.
Incomparable Lord Meath: A Rebellious Sons NOVELLA Page 3