by Cheryl Holt
It was another indication of Winton’s inept bungling. He didn’t know how to run the farm, and Amelia barely possessed the skills to run the household.
“It’s larger than I imagined it would be,” Jackson said. “It’s making me think you’re much grander than I realized.”
“I’m not grand. I’m just ordinary, boring Hannah Graves.”
“I don’t view you as ordinary, but occasionally, you are boring.”
She laughed and said, “Let’s head inside, shall we?”
“It won’t be so bad. You’re not alone this time. I’ll protect you, so if anyone is awful, I’ll get even.”
Her jaw dropped. “Don’t you dare.”
He grinned, appearing impish and even a tad dangerous. “I’m cautious when I’m extracting revenge. They’ll never figure out it was me.”
“We’re not getting even for anything, and you are not avenging me—despite how I’m treated. We’ll simply have a quick visit. We’ll learn how I can help Rebecca, then we’ll return to town.”
“Maybe we should bring her with us.”
They would have debated the issue, but horse’s hooves sounded behind them, and they spun to see who it was. When she recognized the rider, she was so confused that she felt dizzy.
Hunter Stone? Trotting down the lane? Why would he be?
The sight of him was so odd and so unexpected that she wondered if she might be hallucinating. Was she overly fatigued? Was she ill?
“Miss Graves!” he called. “Fancy meeting you here. Isn’t it interesting that we’ve arrived at exactly the same moment?”
“Viscount Marston? Why on earth are you at Parkhurst?”
He reined in and jumped down. There was another man with him, but he didn’t greet her, and Lord Marston didn’t introduce him.
Suddenly, she was fuming. “Answer my question.”
Her rural sojourn would be exhausting enough when she only had to deal with Amelia and Winston. She couldn’t bear to have Hunter Stone stirred into the mix too.
He stepped in so they were toe to toe, and he studied her forever, his hot gaze lingering much longer than was proper or necessary. Then he yanked it away and settled it on her brother.
“Hello, Jackson,” he said.
“Lord Marston.”
Jackson didn’t like the snooty oaf, so he didn’t exhibit any sign of deference. With very little effort, he’d made his feelings clear.
Lord Marston whipped his focus back to her and said, “You should have told me you were traveling today. We could have come in my carriage.”
“Why would I have done that? You couldn’t entice me sufficiently that I’d spend hours trapped in a carriage with you.”
He glanced over his shoulder at his companion and said, “She’s wild about me.”
“She’s sassy anyway,” his companion retorted.
Marston flicked a thumb at the man. “This is my friend, Nate Carew. We served in the army together.”
“You were in the army?” Hannah’s tone was incredibly disdainful. “With you wearing one of our uniforms, I’m amazed the British empire survived.”
“I was decorated for valor numerous times.”
“They must have pinned the medals on the wrong soldier.”
“I have the wounds to prove it. I might show them to you in the future—if you’re really, really nice to me.”
She snorted. “You haven’t answered me. Why are you here? Please don’t tell me you were following me. I would hate for you to be that deranged.”
“I wasn’t following you. I was invited.”
“By who?”
“By your mother.”
Hannah could have begun a lengthy explanation of how her mother had been dead for over two decades, how he had to be referring to her stepmother, but she didn’t want to chat with him. And if he was being truthful, that Amelia had invited him, Hannah’s own stay would be very short indeed.
“I wasn’t aware that you knew her,” Hannah said.
“I don’t, but she’s been corresponding with my father, and they wore me down.”
“For what reason were they corresponding? You could be speaking in riddles.”
As she voiced the comment, a niggle of alarm assailed her. She was at Parkhurst because Amelia had decided to engage Rebecca. In Amelia’s curt note, Amelia had neglected to mention the identity of Rebecca’s potential fiancé.
It couldn’t be. Could it? Had Amelia betrothed Rebecca to this insolent, ridiculous scoundrel? Was that why he was present? To propose to Rebecca?
Well, he would wed quiet, nervous Rebecca over Hannah’s dead body!
“You don’t seem to have guessed what’s happening,” he said, “and I should probably let your mother spill the beans, but I’m happy to do it for her.”
She braced, as if for a hard blow. “What beans are you about to spill?”
“She’s offered your hand in marriage, and I’ve accepted. You’ll be perfect for me, and I’d like a quick wedding. How about you?”
“You are planning to marry me?”
“Surprise!” He laughed as if he’d just played the biggest trick ever.
“No, no, no, no, no….” She was vehemently shaking her head. “I’m not marrying you. There’s been a huge mistake.”
“There’s no mistake.” He peered over at Mr. Carew. “What about it, Nate? Has she been offered to me?”
“Yes, Miss Graves. I’m sorry you had to find out like this. I’m intimately acquainted with Hunter, so I’m sure it’s a shock.”
She felt as if she’d been punched, as if she should have been lying on the ground in a stunned heap.
“Amelia gave me…to…to…you?” She could barely spit out the words.
“I realize you don’t like me very much right now, but I swear I’ll grow on you.”
Tears flooded her eyes. Over the years, Amelia had mocked Hannah, had maltreated her, had deceived and abused her. She’d committed adultery with a man she’d loved over Hannah’s father, and she’d brought that man into Hannah’s life and, with no shame or remorse, had tossed him in her face.
She’d wrecked Hannah’s home, had made the rural spot so hostile that Hannah had run away to escape the awfulness.
After all of that…after all of the vitriol and strife…after every terrible thing Hannah had endured, Amelia had picked this cad to be her husband? Why would Amelia assume she had the authority? Why would she expect Hannah to blithely agree? Was Amelia insane?
Well, yes. Amelia was insane.
“Would you excuse me?” she said to Jackson, not to Viscount Marston. “I have to talk to Amelia. Immediately.”
She dropped her portmanteau and raced to the house, and she could sense them watching her. Viscount Marston laughed again, as if he found her to be the most amusing woman in the world.
CHAPTER FIVE
Amelia Webster sat at the dressing table in her bedroom suite, and she scrutinized herself in the mirror. She didn’t like what she saw.
At thirty-four, her brown eyes were still clear and probing, but her brown hair was showing strands of grey, and her husband, Winston, would notice, which was never beneficial. He was blond, blue-eyed, and as handsome as he’d been when she’d been a girl and had developed a crush on him that had never waned.
He’d worked in her father’s home as her brother’s tutor, and she’d loved him from the moment they’d met. While his affection had dimmed over the years, hers never had. Her biggest fear was that he’d leave her for someone younger, wealthier, and more beautiful.
He occasionally tormented her over the possibility, and with her not providing him the affluence or status he’d hoped to attain by marrying her, she constantly felt that she’d failed him.
He was thin and dapper as ever, but she was short and had gained too much weight. She didn’t wear it well. The seams on her gowns had been let out as far as they would go. When she and Winston stood together, they looked like a great mismatch, rather than a devoted coupl
e.
She needed to travel to London to purchase a new wardrobe that fit her burgeoning size, but money had become a huge issue, and there simply wasn’t any left, not even for the necessities.
Winston nagged relentlessly about their finances, and the conversations made her curse her deceased husband, Sir Edmund. If he’d been richer, she would have been richer, so she could have supported Winston in the style he demanded.
The situation made her curse Hannah too. Hannah didn’t care about Parkhurst, and she could give her half to Amelia—it should have been Amelia’s anyway—yet she wouldn’t consider it. She’d always been selfish, and it was the main reason Amelia detested her.
Behind her, the door crashed open, and she peered over to find that Hannah had burst in without knocking. She wasn’t surprised for it to be Hannah. After all, she’d insisted Hannah attend Rebecca’s betrothal. Nor was she surprised that Hannah had barged in unannounced.
Hannah had the manners of a peasant, and despite how Amelia had struggled to impart a more ladylike disposition, it had been a losing effort. Hannah was the most stubborn female in the kingdom. She didn’t listen, wouldn’t heed valid advice, and she never thought she was wrong.
“Hello, Hannah,” she said on a sigh. “I suppose it would be a waste of breath to suggest that you enter in a less violent way. What if I’d been bathing?”
“Answer one question for me and don’t lie,” was her curt response.
“What is it you wish to know?”
“Did you betroth me without seeking my permission first?”
“Gad, no. I wouldn’t have the nerve. I also wouldn’t dump you on some poor oaf who would wind up miserable forever. You don’t exactly have the temperament to be a good wife.”
Hannah stomped over to where Amelia was still seated on the stool at her dressing table. Hannah leaned down and studied Amelia’s eyes.
“You’re so adept at deceit and evasion,” she said, “it’s hard to tell if you’re being truthful or not.”
“I didn’t contract a secret betrothal for you! And I have no idea why you’d accuse me of it.”
“Then please explain why Hunter Stone is downstairs this very minute and presuming he’s about to wed me.”
“What? I don’t intend Hunter Stone for you. He’s to be engaged to Rebecca. It’s why I asked you to come home. She’s being completely irrational about it, and you must help me convince her to proceed.”
“I hate to break this news to you, Amelia, but you need to haul yourself down to the front parlor and speak to him, for it appears there has been a grievous miscommunication between you and his father.”
Amelia would admit she wasn’t the smartest of women, and complex topics eluded her. “What error have his father and I made?”
“Viscount Marston thinks the betrothal is with me! He thinks you are my mother and that you had the authority to negotiate it. He isn’t aware that you are my stepmother or that you have a daughter of your own.”
“Oh, no.”
Amelia frowned, trying to recall her exchange of letters with Neville Stone. Had she mentioned Rebecca by name? Or had she simply mentioned her daughter?
What was wrong with Neville Stone? Hannah’s father, Sir Edmund, had been quite a famous fellow, and everyone knew he’d had two daughters with two different wives. Why would Neville Stone automatically assume she’d inquired about Hannah?
What a ghastly mistake! How was she to unravel it? When she’d cleverly found an aristocrat for Rebecca, she wasn’t about to let Hannah have him.
Amelia never saw the larger picture, and she asked, “What should I do?”
“You should march down and set him straight.”
“Yes, yes, I guess I should.”
“Please deal with it immediately. I’m incredibly embarrassed, and I shouldn’t have to bump into him again until this is fixed.”
“I’ll confer with him at once.” She stood and departed, but Hannah didn’t follow her. She glanced back and said, “Aren’t you coming?”
“No! I’ll be in my bedchamber. After the debacle is repaired, send a maid to fetch me. I’ll join you then.”
“Fine, fine, be that way,” she grumbled.
She would have continued on, but Hannah said, “There’s one other thing I must tell you first. I meant to ease you into the introduction, but Viscount Marston scuttled that plan.”
Amelia braced. “What is it?”
“I’ve brought a guest with me. Sir Edmund’s son, Jackson? I decided he should have an opportunity to visit Parkhurst.”
“You brought Sir Edmund’s bastard into my home?”
“It’s my home, Amelia, not yours. You didn’t want it, remember? And Father obliged you. I own it, and I graciously allow you to reside in it, but you always conveniently forget that fact.”
“That is precisely the type of snotty comment I would have expected from you.”
“Yes, well, I’m a bit on edge, what with wondering whether I’m about to be handed over to that despicable scoundrel, Viscount Marston. You’ll have to pardon me for being out of sorts.”
Amelia glared at Hannah, and she wished she had the temerity to storm over and slap her for being so insolent, but with Viscount Marston waiting, there was no time to quarrel with her stepchild.
No, Amelia had bigger fish to fry. Rebecca was refusing to wed, but when Amelia had gone to so much trouble on Rebecca’s behalf, she wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense.
Amelia was terrified Viscount Marston might have stumbled on Rebecca before Amelia introduced them. If he had, catastrophe would erupt.
Rebecca always made a bad impression, and Marston believed Hannah was to be his bride. To Amelia’s perpetual consternation, Hannah was everything Rebecca was not: smart, assertive, accomplished, pragmatic, mature, and very, very pretty.
Rebecca was plain, quiet, flighty, and not very bright. If Marston imagined he was getting vibrant, captivating Hannah, then was given trembling, irksome Rebecca instead, he’d never be content with the switch. He’d renege and walk away, and it would be a disaster.
Amelia was still stung because her father hadn’t found her an aristocrat. He’d picked one for her older sister, and he’d funded an ostentatious wedding and massive dowry. When he’d had to choose a fiancé for Amelia, he’d run out of money, so she’d had to settle for Sir Edmund.
She’d never forgiven her father, and she would rectify the situation by arranging a high match for Rebecca. She’d read about Neville Stone being elevated to earl, and she’d been the quickest savvy mother who’d jumped at the chance to snag Hunter Stone.
She ought to receive a prize for being so shrewd. She’d glommed onto him before he’d even realized he should be searching for a bride, but he thought he was marrying Hannah?
Once he met Rebecca, he’d likely feel Amelia had tricked him. He might accuse her of fraud or maybe even breach of promise, and the ramifications were too horrid to contemplate. Why wasn’t she ever lucky?
She rushed down the hall and the stairs, and when she arrived in the foyer, she inhaled several calming breaths, then she went to the front parlor. She did a swift, visual survey and saw two adult men and no sign of the bastard boy.
Thank goodness.
One was a blond god—tall, broad, and handsome—and the other was short and portly, with dark hair and eyes. Since the Stone men were all blond and gorgeous, it was easy to deduce which one was Viscount Marston.
Due to Winston’s financial woes, it was difficult to pay wages, so they had an enormous turnover of staff. Her servants were barely competent, but he’d been appropriately tended. He and his companion were standing over by the window, staring out at the park, and drinking an alcoholic beverage.
“Gentlemen! Welcome!” She forced a wide smile. They spun and gaped at her, and their potent masculine focus was unnerving. “I apologize for not being here to greet you. I’m Mrs. Webster.”
“Hello, Mrs. Webster,” they said together.
She hurrie
d over to them. “I’m betting you’re Viscount Marston!”
She reached for his hands to squeeze them as if they were fondly acquainted, and there was an awkward moment where he didn’t extend his in response. They froze, then she dropped her arms and pretended she hadn’t been so forward.
“Yes, I’m Marston.” He gestured to his companion. “This is my friend, Mr. Nate Carew. I invited him to tag along. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No, I don’t mind.” She motioned to a nearby sofa. “Will you sit? We should chat for a bit. There are a few things I should explain.”
“I don’t wish to be rude, but where is Miss Graves? She ran off when we were out in the driveway, and I’d like to get this over with. Will she be joining us?”
“She’s…she’s just…ah…up in her bedchamber.”
“I guess you hadn’t informed her about the engagement.”
“Well, yes…ah…she was a tad startled.”
He snorted at that. “If we are to discuss any topic, I suppose we should begin there. How are we to convince her that she should be happy to wed me?”
“I should probably mention one crucial item…”
Amelia’s voice trailed off. She was certain—if she told him the truth—he would stomp out the door and not come back. She wouldn’t be able to ease him into the notion of marrying Rebecca rather than Hannah.
The silence stretched out, and finally, he broke it. “Is there a problem with the betrothal? I recognize that Miss Graves is stubborn, but I’m sure we can persuade her to climb down off her high horse.”
A dozen replies flitted through her head, but before she could pick the least destructive one, Rebecca spoke from out in the foyer. “Mother, I heard we have guests. Is it my fiancé?”
Rebecca blustered in, and Amelia would have liked to claim Rebecca made a grand entrance, but she wasn’t fetching, and she slouched. She was blond and blue-eyed, like every other British girl, and she’d be seventeen in a few months, but she looked as if she might be ten.
She liked to paint in the solarium in the afternoons, so she had paint specks on her hands and a smudge on her cheek. Her hair was in braids, enhancing the perception that she was very young. She hadn’t removed her apron, so she appeared unkempt, untidy, and unconcerned that she was.