by Cheryl Holt
“Of course. Who doesn’t?”
“Good. We brought clothes—just in case.”
Evidently, Mrs. Webster and Nate were now chums. She gestured to the door, and they sauntered inside. At the last second, Nate peered back at Hunter and asked, “Are you coming in or not?”
His temper was on a slow boil, but eventually, he said, “Yes, I’m coming in.”
He followed them into the manor, and as he was crossing the foyer, Hannah Graves spoke from up on the stairs.
“I could have sworn you left,” she said. “Why are you still here?”
“I’ve turned up again—like a bad penny.”
“I’m sure, if you continue on to town, you’ll be much happier.”
“You’re probably correct, but for the moment, I’ve chosen to tarry and let you amuse me with more of your nonsense.”
She hovered, looking as if she’d hurl a thousand insults, but in the end, she whirled away and fled to her room where, no doubt, she would hide until he was really and truly gone.
As he joined Nate in the front parlor, Nate murmured, “I expect this will be a very interesting evening.”
“Shut up,” Hunter retorted. “Just find someone to pour me a whiskey, and shut the hell up.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I don’t blame you for not liking her. I warned Amelia that you wouldn’t.”
Hunter glared at Winston Webster. He was a short, thin man, blond-haired, blue-eyed, and probably forty or so. Some women would likely describe him as handsome, but Hunter found him to be extremely odious.
Hannah Graves was fortunate she’d moved to town to get away from him. Had Winston Webster been the driving force behind her decision to depart?
Hunter was more curious about that situation than he should have been.
With more rancor than he should have displayed, he said, “Are you claiming you have no control over your wife?”
“I have some control—as you’ll learn once you’re a husband. When a wife fixates on an issue, it’s hard to make her listen and obey.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Supper was over. Praise be.
It had been a tedious affair, attended by Hunter, Amelia and Winston Webster, Hannah and Rebecca Graves, and Nate. Hannah had wanted her brother, Jackson, to eat with them too, and Hunter had overheard a heated exchange between her and her stepmother, over whether he would be allowed to dine with the adults.
The predicament had resolved when a footman arrived to declare that Jackson hadn’t wished to eat with them.
Smart boy. Hunter would have liked to be offered the same choice.
The meal had been stilted and unpleasant, with plenty of acrimony swirling among the various Webster/Graves family members. His earlier refusal to consider Rebecca Graves as a fiancée had simply added to the awkwardness.
Rebecca hadn’t appeared to feel slighted though. She’d been the most verbose of all the people present. Hannah had been sullenly silent, while Mr. and Mrs. Webster had tried to fill the lulls in the discussion. Nate had pitched in too, but it had been a wasted effort.
Hunter couldn’t wait for morning so he could climb on his horse and escape. If Nate declined to accompany him, he’d go alone.
The ladies had left the dining room, so he and Nate were trapped with Webster while they drank their ritual glass of port. Hunter couldn’t abide port though, so it was another aggravation to lay at Hannah’s feet. His current misery was her fault.
“Why did you assume I wouldn’t like Miss Rebecca?” he asked. He wasn’t interested in Webster’s explanation, but someone had to keep the conversation limping along.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Webster replied. “She’s too young for you. And too plain. Your penchant for beautiful women isn’t a secret.”
“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or alarmed.”
“I told my wife that Rebecca could never entice you, but it’s difficult for a mother to admit her daughter isn’t pretty.”
It was a horrid comment, and if Hunter had had some authority over Rebecca, he’d have pounded Webster into the ground.
Nate spoke up. “Miss Rebecca may not be fetching, but she has other attributes.”
“Name one,” Webster said like an ass.
“She’s an heiress, and money always makes a female more attractive.”
Hunter frowned at Nate. “How do you know she’s an heiress?”
“Oh…ah…I just figured she must have been. Why else would your father have pursued an engagement?”
Nate couldn’t hold Hunter’s gaze, so he was being furtive over some topic, but Hunter didn’t care what it was. He simply yearned for the dreary night to be over.
“Yes, she’s an heiress,” Webster said to Nate, “but not much of a one. Not with Marston’s recent elevation. He can wed any girl in the world. Why not chase after a duke’s daughter or a princess? He doesn’t have to settle for a provincial nobody.”
Hunter’s blood boiled on Rebecca’s behalf. “It doesn’t sound as if you like your stepdaughter very much. She seems rather harmless to me. How has she earned so much of your ire?”
“It’s never easy to raise another man’s child,” Webster said.
“Yes, I’m certain she’s been a constant trial to you.” Hunter’s tone was incredibly sarcastic. “Since I’m not marrying her, who will your wife offer her to next?”
“I wouldn’t dare to speculate. Amelia is determined to find an aristocrat for her. She’s regretted that she wasn’t given a nobleman herself, and she’s anxious to rectify the situation with Rebecca.”
A hint of rage flashed in Webster’s eyes, but he quickly concealed it. Was he chafing over his wife’s reverence for aristocrats?
Hunter suspected the man’s lineage would be quite low on the social ladder. He was lucky to have up-jumped into a marriage to Amelia Webster, but he was very vain, so he probably wouldn’t view his condition in that light.
Just to be spiteful, Hunter said, “What about your other stepdaughter, Hannah? What is your opinion of her?”
“She’s stubborn and willful, and she carries on however she pleases.”
“Will Mrs. Webster find a husband for her?” Hunter asked.
“Gad, no. If Amelia tried, I would have to put my foot down. Hannah would emasculate any oaf who agreed to have her. I’d never allow Amelia to trick some poor fellow into shackling himself.”
Hunter’s patience was exhausted. He couldn’t decide if Webster simply had no manners or if he imagined Hunter would be impressed by his lack of circumspection. Hunter wasn’t exactly discreet himself, but there were some remarks—particularly familial ones—that shouldn’t be voiced aloud.
He downed his drink, then stood. “Let’s join the ladies, shall we?”
“Yes…ah…I guess we can,” Webster said. “I wasn’t finished with my beverage.”
Hunter started out, not supplying Nate or Webster with a chance to delay him. A footman escorted him to an adjacent parlor. Amelia Webster was seated on a sofa, and Rebecca was over in the corner and ineptly plunking out a tune on the harpsichord. Hannah was nowhere to be found.
The French doors onto the verandah were open, and he marched by the two women without pausing. As he exited into the fresh night air, he inhaled several deep breaths, as if he’d been suffocating and hadn’t realized it.
The moon was up and shining over the park. There were no lamps lit, but he could see well enough, and he was desperate to flee the manor. If he tarried where he was, he was afraid Mr. Webster would bluster out to talk.
Hunter was a very gregarious person who liked to revel in outrageous ways. He spent his time in packed venues: auctions, horse races, gambling clubs, balls, supper parties, but he was easily bored, and he couldn’t bear idiots, sloths, or ingrates. He especially couldn’t bear fawning sycophants or unscrupulous brutes.
Amelia Webster was stupid and dull. Rebecca was silly and uninteresting. Winston Webster was a conniver and a fraud. Hun
ter felt it down to his bones.
He went out into the garden and wandered down a path until he was a distance from the house. Then he halted to study it. What must it have been like to grow up in the spot? He hadn’t ever met Sir Edmund, but Neville had been acquainted with him, and apparently, he’d been a gambler and wastrel with little sense or luck. Hunter was surprised he’d held onto the estate and had been able to bequeath it to his heirs.
He spun around, wondering if he’d keep walking, if he might simply head off and not come back, but he saw Hannah Graves sitting on a bench. She was hunched down in the shadows, obviously hoping he wouldn’t notice her, but where she was concerned, he had a heightened perception that was working perfectly.
“Miss Graves,” he said, “this is the second occasion I’ve stumbled on you in a dark garden. It must mean something. What could it be?”
“Don’t flatter yourself into supposing there’s a purpose to it.”
“You were a complete snot to me at supper. You barely spoke two words.”
“I rarely converse when I’m at Parkhurst, and I wasn’t about to alter into a chatterbox merely because you’re present.”
“I don’t think you like your relatives.”
“And I don’t think my relationship with them is any of your business.”
It was clear she was as exasperated with them as he was. He sauntered over and plopped down next to her, and she sighed with aggravation.
“Must you bother me?” she asked. “I’m having a few quiet minutes by myself. I don’t need you interrupting.”
“Shouldn’t you be inside with your kin? This is your home after all. Aren’t you glad to be visiting them?”
She mumbled a comment he couldn’t decipher, then said, “Why are you still here? I could have sworn you were leaving.”
He shrugged. “It was late, and I wasn’t eager to ride off when evening was approaching. My friend, Nate, didn’t want to either. Mrs. Webster begged us to stay.”
“It wasn’t just so you could dawdle and annoy me beyond my limit?”
“Much as I’m sure it will devastate you to hear it, when I decided to remain, you never crossed my mind.”
The remark was a bald-faced lie. From the moment he’d met her, she’d been front and center in his mental musings. Especially since he’d kissed her up in her bedchamber. He was certain it had been an anomaly. If he tried it again, he was positive he wouldn’t be as overwhelmed as he’d been earlier.
Shouldn’t he find out?
He dipped in and kissed her, but he only managed a quick brush of his lips to hers before she shifted away.
“Would you please stop kissing me?” she said, her tone scolding.
“I couldn’t help myself.”
“You appear to be fascinated with me, which I don’t understand. Would you clarify what’s happening between us?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea. It seems as if we’re destined to become better acquainted.”
She scoffed. “That’s not why. It’s because women drool over you, and you’re irritated that I haven’t.”
“You haven’t drooled yet, but you will.”
He stole another kiss, and this one lasted a little longer. She pulled away and chuckled, but with disgust. “You are the vainest oaf I’ve ever encountered. Were you always this pompously infuriating? Or have you grown more arrogant as you aged?”
“I was born arrogant. I take after my father.”
They were silent for a bit, and he could practically read the tortured thoughts rolling around in her head. He was that attuned to her every emotion. She was fuming, wishing she was somewhere else. In that, they had a lot in common.
“I don’t like your family,” he said.
“Oh, you are so rude.”
“Should I fib about it? Should I pretend they’re marvelous?”
“I’d realize you weren’t serious. They’re not very likeable.”
“How old were you when your father married Mrs. Webster?”
“Seven.”
“And how old was she?”
“Sixteen.”
“That must have been…interesting.”
She sputtered with amusement. “You are a master of understatement.”
He pointed out the obvious. “You don’t get along with her. You never have.”
“No.”
“How about your half-sister, Rebecca? Do you get along with her?”
“I don’t really know her. When she was younger, I was away at boarding school. Then she went to school, and I moved to London.”
“To escape?”
She paused forever, then said, “I will only admit it this once. Yes, I was desperate to escape.”
“Where did you drum up the funds to pay for it?”
She gasped with offense. “Viscount Marston! My finances are none of your business either. Why must you be so maddeningly blunt?”
“If I’m curious about a situation, I ask. Would you rather I lurked in the halls and listened to the servants gossiping about you?”
She paused again, but she was brimming with the need to talk about her life. She couldn’t resist. “My father bequeathed some money to me, and I used it to purchase my shop.”
“How has that worked out? Are you succeeding? Or will you wind up bankrupt?”
Her shoulders slumped. “Your inquiry is so impertinent that I should ignore you, but I constantly worry about failing. I have my brother, Jackson, to support now, so my burdens are particularly heavy.”
He studied her, thinking she looked tired and weary. She assumed she could manage on her own, but he doubted she would. Everyone agreed that women shouldn’t involve themselves in commerce, and he supposed—before too much more time had passed—she’d be forced back to Parkhurst.
“Would your stepmother let you move home?” he asked. “Or would she bar the gates?”
She smirked. “She can’t bar the gates. Parkhurst belongs to me. Well, to me and Rebecca. My father gifted it to us in equal shares.”
“That’s quite extraordinary, isn’t it? What about Jackson? Why didn’t he get a share?”
She leaned nearer and whispered, “He’s my father’s natural son. Father didn’t leave him anything.”
“But you’re raising him?” Hunter frowned. “How did that occur exactly?”
“A vicar from an orphanage delivered him to me a few months ago. His mother had died, and he didn’t have any other family.”
“Were you aware of his existence prior to his waltzing in?”
“No, so I’ve had some very bewildering moments recently.”
“How old is he? Fourteen or so?”
“Yes, fourteen.”
“He seems a tad…worldly to me, as if he’s seen more than a child should have.”
“You are very perceptive.”
He was glad there was no lantern shining on them. She was confiding all kinds of information she’d regret in the morning.
“You’ve confessed many secrets,” he said. “What am I to make of such candor?”
“I shall blame it on the night. It’s spurring me to spill details about myself I shouldn’t have revealed.”
“I hate to ask about your shop again, but what if it fails and you have to return to Parkhurst? Mrs. Webster wouldn’t be too thrilled to have Jackson on the premises. If she wouldn’t let you bring him with you, what would you do?”
“Amelia has no stake in the property.” She grinned, appearing impish. “She and Winston live here at my pleasure. If I want to come home, and if I want to bring my bastard half-brother too, she can’t stop me.”
It was a bold declaration that was extremely fascinating to him. Generally, he didn’t like assertive women. He didn’t like them to be over-educated or to have their own money. When a female was too smart or too rich, it left her with personality traits that were exhausting.
He liked women who were compliant and agreeable, who were obedient to the men in their lives and grateful for the support, adv
ice, and sensible restrictions those men provided. So why was he tantalized by her?
He was baffled by his interest, and it was madness to tarry with her on a dark bench. For some odd reason, he was suffering from a strange urge to learn more about her, to absorb every fact he could coax her into disclosing. No matter how much she imparted, he felt he should hear more.
He asked, “What will happen to your sister now that I’ve quashed an engagement?”
“I’m betting Amelia will snag some other poor sap.”
“Would Rebecca be amenable? She doesn’t seem that keen on matrimony.”
“I have to have a heart-to-heart chat with her about it.”
“If her mother tries to force her into a marriage, might she run away to London? Would she show up on your stoop and beg for help? You’d have two siblings needing assistance.”
“Gad, don’t even think it! I have burdens enough as it is.”
“Why don’t you just kick the Websters out? You could return to Parkhurst and manage the place yourself. It might be easier than scraping by in the city.”
“They don’t have anywhere to go. Should I toss them out on the road? And then what? Amelia is Rebecca’s mother, and I can’t convince myself to treat her badly. It’s better if I stay where I am.”
“When did she wed Mr. Webster?” he asked.
She gnawed on her cheek. “Could we not talk about it?”
“Tell me. I want to know.”
She remained mulishly silent, and he clasped her hand and linked their fingers. Then he bent in and nuzzled her neck. She shivered and glared, then shocked him by saying, “Winston moved in the day after my father died.”
“What? No!”
“He and Amelia were married a month later.”
“Your vicar was willing to perform a ceremony?”
“No, he refused, so they eloped to Scotland. Winston was a tutor in her father’s house when she was growing up, and she’s been sweet on him since she was a girl.”
“He swooped in to claim her the minute she was a wealthy widow. May I label him the worst of fortune-hunters?”
“Yes, and her inheritance from my father was a gift of money. Winston spent it very fast, and their penury adds to the weight that’s been imposed on me. They have no funds of their own, so how can I evict them? What is my duty to them? Have I a duty? I struggle with that question, and I can’t persuade myself to be cruel.”