by Diane Gaston
‘I am surprised,’ he said.
‘Why?’ she shot back. ‘Why should we not be presented?’
He held up a hand. ‘I am surprised any lady would wish all that fuss.’
Miss Summerfield stiffened. ‘It would be an honour.’
Did his sister wish it? If so, it would never happen for her.
‘An honour, indeed, I suppose,’ he said.
‘As would procuring vouchers for Almack’s,’ she went on. ‘Will you be getting a voucher for Almack’s?’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Not likely.’ The London Season was not a good time for his family.
She gazed into the fire. ‘Why not? I thought you were high born.’
He sat up straight again. ‘Why did you think that?’
‘You said your father went to school with Lord Tinmore’s son.’
He had said that.
‘I am high born.’ But he’d been deliberately evasive about who he was. Now that they were to spend the night together, she might as well know. ‘You have likely heard of Viscount Northdon?’
She looked blank. ‘No.’
She must be the one person in England who had not heard of Viscount Northdon. ‘You see, Miss Summerfield, I come from a family with a tarnished reputation. Viscount Northdon is my father and, because he married my mother, our family is not accepted in the highest circles of society.’
He expected to see curiosity in her expression. Instead, he saw sympathy.
It touched him more deeply than he was willing to admit and made him go on. ‘My mother is French and came from trade.’ It pained him to say the rest. ‘But that is not the worst of it. Her father became active in the Terror.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Hence we are not welcome at Almack’s.’
She lowered her gaze and spoke in a quiet voice. ‘It is likely our family will not receive vouchers to Almack’s, either, even if Lord Tinmore wishes it.’ She raised her eyes to him. ‘I, too, have a scandalous mother.’
‘I have heard of your mother,’ he admitted. He’d also heard she’d abandoned her husband and children to run away with one of her lovers.
Pain filled Miss Summerfield’s eyes. ‘I suppose everyone has heard of our mother.’ She pulled her knees up so that her feet rested on the chair’s seat. ‘I expect they will stare wherever we go. And whisper—’
He knew firsthand she was correct. ‘Lord Tinmore’s reputation will ease matters for you.’
‘Yes.’ Her expression filled with resolve. ‘Lord Tinmore will do much for us.’
He could reassure her even more. ‘Your sister will be seen as having made a brilliant match. No reason you cannot do the same.’ Especially with her face and her figure.
‘I do not want to wish to make a brilliant match,’ she snapped. ‘My parents made a brilliant match and look what happened to them.’
And look what happened to his parents for making such an unwise one.
She rested her chin on her knees. ‘I do not care about titles or position. I want to marry someone who will love me for myself and who will not care what members of my family have done.’
‘Love?’ His parents had married for love. Or at least for the physical desire that so often masquerades as love. ‘Better to make a marriage of mutual advantage.’
‘My parents married for advantage,’ she said. ‘Believe me, it does not work.’
Such a marriage had a better chance than one made out of love. Love led to rash acts and later regrets.
And constant discord.
‘What say you of your sister’s marriage, then?’ The woman had not married the man out of passion, that was for certain.
She uncurled herself and leaned towards him. ‘What can you know about my sister’s marriage?’
‘I can guess she thought it to her advantage to marry Lord Tinmore.’ Why Tinmore might have married her was not a topic for the ears of a young lady.
‘That she married him for his money, do you mean?’ Her voice rose.
‘Of course she married for money. And a title. And Lord Tinmore gained a young wife and a reason to emerge from seclusion. There is no shame in any of that.’
She settled back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Lorene had no wish for a title or wealth any more than I do.’
That he very much doubted. ‘Then what were her reasons?’
The pain returned to Miss Summerfield’s eyes. ‘She did it for us. For me and for Genna. And even Edmund. So we—so we could have a chance for decent, happy lives. So Genna and I could have dowries. So we could marry as we wish. And—and not be forced to accept just any offer. So we would not have to become lady’s companions or governesses.’ She took a breath. ‘I assure you, Lorene married Lord Tinmore for the noblest of reasons.’
‘Your situation was that dire?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded.
‘Then I commend your sister even more. I wish her well.’ He’d sacrifice for his sister, if he could.
Her brows knitted. ‘I fear she will be miserable.’ Her chin set. ‘That is why I am determined that I should make a love match and be happy. For my sister.’
He peered at her. ‘You would allow your heart to rule your choice?’
‘I would insist upon it.’
He tapped his temple. ‘Better to use your head, Miss Summerfield.’
She lifted her chin. ‘How can you know? You are not married, are you?’
‘Married? No.’ But he did speak from experience.
When his father had embarked on his Grand Tour as a young man, he met Marc’s mother and eloped with her. They continued his tour for a passionate year, but their wedded bliss ended almost immediately when they set foot back on English soil.
‘Believe me, Miss Summerfield. A marriage is best contracted by one’s brain, not one’s heart.’ Or one’s loins.
She leaned back in her chair again. ‘Then I pity the woman who becomes your wife.’
He shrugged. ‘On the contrary. She is like-minded.’
She blinked. ‘You are betrothed?’
‘No.’ He rose and put the last of their lumps of coal on the fire. ‘But we have an understanding. She is the main reason I am bound for London.’
* * *
It ought not to bother Tess that there was a woman he planned to marry. It should not bother her that she might see the woman on his arm in London. Or dancing with him at a ball. She had dreams of dancing with Mr Welton, did she not?
But somehow it would have been a comfort to meet him in London without a woman in tow and to pretend they did not have a huge secret between them.
‘Are you certain this woman will marry you, simply because you offer her—what? That you are a viscount’s son?’ she asked him.
He shifted in his chair. ‘I am heir to the title, not that I ever wished to be.’
‘Why would you not wish for the title?’ Both their father and Edmund would have been greatly gratified if Edmund had been the legitimate son and heir.
In fact, their father should have married Edmund’s mother. She had been the woman he loved.
Mr Glenville turned his blue eyes on her. Grieving blue eyes. ‘My brother had to die. Believe me, I would rather have my brother back than a thousand titles.’
She reached over and touched his arm. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said truthfully. ‘It is a terrible thing to earn a title. Someone must always die.’
He smiled, a sad smile. ‘Not always. One can earn a title from winning a war, like the Duke of Wellington.’
His smile made her insides flutter. She glanced back to the fire. ‘You do not worry that this woman you wish to marry would marry you merely because you will be a viscount someday?’
‘Mind?’ His smile remained. ‘That is what I have to offer. A title. Wealth. Why should she not want those things?’
A title did not keep a man from becoming a bitter person. Wealth could be fleeting, as well she knew.
‘Why should you want her, then?’ she asked. ‘What advanta
ge does she offer you?’
His expression sobered. ‘She is the sister of a good friend. We’ve known each other since childhood. Her family is extremely respectable and that will do much to erase the damage my parents’ reputations have done.’
‘You will marry her for her family’s reputation?’ Was that not like marrying for social connections? Her father had married her mother for her social connections, all of which disappeared when she ran off with another man.
He gazed at her with understanding. ‘Perhaps you and your sisters never suffered the stigma of your mother’s scandals.’
She glanced away again. ‘Our father never took us to London.’ There were, though, a few ladies around Yardney who whispered when they were in view and a few gentlemen who’d spoken—rudely.
He added, ‘You will benefit from Lord Tinmore’s reputation in London, no doubt.’
She turned to him. ‘I do understand that. Without Tinmore’s wealth and reputation, we should be invited nowhere. But that does not mean that I would accept an offer of marriage from a man for whom I do not feel great regard.’
‘I feel regard for my intended bride, but I will not let emotions dictate my choices.’
‘You like her, then?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘I like her well enough.’
Well enough. She was beginning to feel very sorry for his intended. ‘But you do not love her?’
He gazed at her and the firelight made his eyes even more intense. ‘Are you asking if I have a passion for her? If my mind goes blank and my tongue becomes tied when I am with her? The answer is no.’ He turned back to the fire. ‘But I like her well enough.’
Perhaps if Tess’s father had loved their mother, she would not have sought lovers. Perhaps if her mother had loved her father, he would have indulged her and flattered her and cosseted her as she wished. Tess and her sisters had discussed this many times.
‘I hope you learn to love her,’ Tess told Mr Glenville. ‘I hope she loves you.’
His expression remained implacable.
She adjusted her blankets and stared into the fire. The chair felt hard and the wind found its way inside. The fire was losing its battle to keep the place warm.
They were silent for a while until Mr Glenville spoke. ‘How old are you, Miss Summerfield?’
‘I am two and twenty.’
His brows rose. ‘And your sister, Lady Tinmore?’
‘She is five and twenty.’
He peered at her. ‘In your twenties and you have had no suitors? That is hard to believe.’
She straightened. ‘I did not say we had no suitors. Our situation has not been such that those suitors could make an offer. We had no dowries.’
‘Your father did not provide you and your sisters with dowries?’ he asked.
If he’d heard of their mother, surely he could guess. Their father did not believe they were his daughters.
But she would not speak that out loud. ‘Our father was fond of making risky investments. He wanted to be fabulously wealthy so our mother would regret leaving him, but his investments were terrible ones. He used the last of his funds—our dowries—to purchase a commission for Edmund.’
‘Edmund is your father’s illegitimate son?’
So he also knew that part of her family story, as well.
‘Yes.’ She added, ‘Our half-brother.’
She and her sisters likely shared no blood with Edmund. The sisters shared a mother. He came from their father.
She went on. ‘I do not disagree with you that one needs some fortune and reputation in order to make a good match. Lorene has given us this, but wealth and reputation are not enough for a marriage. It is love that is the answer. Love can get one over the inevitable hurdles of life.’
‘Now you are sounding philosophic. There are some hurdles that mere emotion can’t jump over.’ He peered at her. ‘Do you have a suitor?’
She felt her face grow red.
He frowned. ‘You have a suitor. A man who would not court you because you had no dowry.’
She flushed with anger this time. ‘Perhaps I do have such a suitor. Perhaps that is why I say the things I do.’
He threw off his blanket and stood. ‘I am going to check on Apollo.’ Before he reached the door he turned back to her. ‘I hope it all works for you, Miss Summerfield. But before you make that final vow with your suitor, think with your head and forget your heart.’
She wanted to snap back at him, but his tone disturbed her. And what he said was true. Mr Welton could not court her when she had no dowry, but that did not mean his heart could not be engaged.
Did it?
He opened the door and the wind rushed in. The temperature dropped even lower in just that brief moment. Tess forgot about dowries or love matches or reputations. The air was freezing and they’d put the last of the coal on the fire. How would they stay warm through the night?
‘I’ll look for more firewood,’ Mr Glenville said, as if reading her mind. ‘What we have won’t last the night.’
Chapter Four
Ice crunched under Marc’s bare feet as he crossed the yard to the stable. His feet ached from the cold as he tended to Apollo. Why could he not have been stranded in June instead of February?
It was not only the icy cold that disturbed him. His conversation with Miss Summerfield did, as well.
It cut too close. All this talk of marriage. Love.
His parents had fallen in love and where had it led them? To shouting, accusations, recriminations, declarations that they wished they’d never set eyes on each other. They’d ruined their lives, he’d heard over and over.
Then there was Lucien and Charles. Where had love led his brother and his friend?
No falling in love for him. He’d control such runaway emotions.
‘That is the sensible way, eh, Apollo?’
His horse snorted in reply and Marc leaned his face against Apollo’s warm neck. He found another blanket to help keep Apollo warm and tried not to think of the icy hammers pounding on his feet.
‘We’ll be on our way in the morning,’ Marc murmured. ‘Stay steady, old fellow.’
He searched the stable for scraps of wood to burn and found a few pieces to add to the fire. They would burn quickly, though. He and Miss Summerfield were headed for a very cold night, he knew from experience. He’d spent many a cold night in the French countryside, hiding from men whose suspicions about him had been aroused.
Gritting his teeth, he crossed the icy mud again and entered the cabin. She was crouched by the fire, pouring water from the kettle into the teapot.
‘I found some wood.’ Not enough wood, though. He dropped it by the fireplace, coming close to her.
She looked up at him. ‘I thought you might like more tea. It will be even weaker than before, but it might warm you.’
‘Tea will be most welcome.’
Her eyes showed some distress. He wanted to touch her, ease her worry. Instead he moved away to hang his greatcoat on the line.
His feet hurt even worse as the blood rushed to them. He hurried back to his chair by the fire and wrapped his feet in the blanket.
‘What is wrong?’ she asked, gazing at his feet.
‘Cold.’ He rubbed his feet. ‘I believe my wet boots will be preferable at this point.’
She rose and walked over to the clothes line. ‘Your socks are fairly dry.’ She brought them to him and knelt at his feet. ‘I’ll put them on for you.’
Her hands felt too soothing and his body came to life, precisely what he did not wish to feel.
‘Perhaps this is not the thing for a lady to do,’ he managed to protest.
She placed one sock on his foot. ‘It is so little, after what you have done for me.’
At least now he felt warmer. He endured the pleasure of her slipping the second sock on the other foot, gazing down at her as she worked it over his heel. Her hair was in a plait down her back, but tendrils escaped to frame her lovely face.
&nb
sp; She was a woman a man could lose his head over. For once he wished he could be like his father had been—blinded by passion and unaware of the disaster ahead of him.
But his eyes were open.
She wrapped his feet in a blanket again and moved away to pour their weak, but hot, tea.
Take care in London, he wanted to tell her. There were men who knew how to play upon a young woman’s heart. Love came in many disguises, some even more hurtful than the pain his parents inflicted on each other.
Perhaps he could watch out for her. Perhaps he could warn her away from the worst dangers of love.
No. He needed to stay away from her. She tempted him too much.
She handed him his jug. ‘Such as it is.’
He nodded thanks.
She sat in her chair and they sipped the hot liquid that only retained the barest hint of tea. The fire dwindled to embers, but Marc held off on placing the last of their wood on it. He glanced around the room and wondered if he ought to try to break up the furniture.
It seemed an extreme measure and greatly unfair to the owner of the cottage.
Miss Summerfield yawned and curled up in her chair.
He reached over and touched her arm. ‘You should lie on the cot and get some sleep. I’ll move it closer to the fire.’
‘Where will you sleep?’ she murmured.
He shrugged. ‘The chair will do.’ He’d slept in worse places.
The wind found its way through the walls of the cabin. Miss Summerfield shivered. ‘It is cold.’
And it would get colder. ‘You’ll be warmer on the cot.’
She did as he asked and she was soon tucked in under her blanket as close to the fireplace as he could place the bed.
He watched her as she slept and shivered as the temperature dropped even further and the fire consumed the wood. He scavenged the cabin and found a few more lumps of coal, but the room was very, very cold.
She woke, shivering, but not complaining.
There was only one way he could think of to keep her warm now, but it was a proposition that no young lady should accept. It was also a thought that consumed him much too often.
She rolled over and gazed at him. ‘You should take a turn on th-the cot. You must be colder than I am.’